


you're made of memories you bury or live by

by tirralirra



Series: never look away [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirralirra/pseuds/tirralirra
Summary: Three days ago he woke up in the hospital to a life he didn’t know and only sort of expected.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou (Minor), Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru (implied), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Shirofuku Yukie (minor)
Series: never look away [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015284
Comments: 96
Kudos: 503
Collections: Team MSBY Black Jackal Haikyuu





	you're made of memories you bury or live by

**Author's Note:**

> cw: minor character injury and descriptions thereof, short hospitalization, amnesia/memory loss
> 
> Title from Vienna Teng's "Never Look Away"

“ _who needs memories?”_

\---

There’s something wrong with his kitchen. Specifically, the coffee maker. Rather, that there is a coffee maker at all. Atsumu has never bought into the idea of a caffeine dependency. He likes the aroma, and he will drink it on occasion, but he is more of a morning-run-followed-by-protein-smoothie kind of guy. So it doesn’t make sense that he has a coffee maker prominently displayed on the kitchen counter that—yes, as he peers closely at it—appears to be frequently used and well-maintained. 

_How much can a person’s taste change in two years, really?_ Atsumu muses to himself as he contemplates the sleek machine, tries to imagine being a regular coffee drinker, and reconsiders his strange current situation for what feels like the thousandth time today.

Three days ago he woke up in the hospital to a life he didn’t know and only sort of expected: still the starting setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, but somehow also an Olympics gold medalist, number eleven on the national team, and the current reigning top server in the V.League rankings. It’s the last week of June, 2022, and Osaka is well into the rainy season. The last thing that Atsumu remembers before waking up is the heat of summer bleeding into autumn as he geared up for the 2019-2020 season as a returning league champion.

Somehow, he’s missing two and a half years of memories. It both feels like he’s jumped two and half years into the future and three months backwards.

Or, maybe less like he “jumped” and more like he was “dumped,” suddenly adrift in a sea of things he should know, but doesn’t. He is a twenty-six-year-old Atsumu that the twenty-four-year-old Atsumu has—had—only just started to hunger for, a star athlete. Granted, a star athlete that lived through a global pandemic before competing at his first Olympics, and also apparently moved into a new apartment complete with fancy coffee machine. 

The apartment, nine floors up in a discrete, but modern building on the south side of Higashiosaka, convenient to the Black Jackals’ home gym, Onigiri Miya, and Osaka proper, unsettles him even though he’s supposedly called it home for the last year and half. It is a step up from the comfortable, but basic 1LDK that MSBY first furnished for him, the one he last remembers, but it doesn’t feel like _his._

The space is too big and too clean. He’s always been a tidy person, tidier than people expect, but this place looks like it’s out of a magazine feature for a celebrity’s home. Which, he supposes, is sort of accurate, not that he has any gauge on his celebrity right now.

Two and a half years of memories—gone. All thanks to a bonk on the head from a poorly installed billboard. At least it wasn’t a billboard with his own face on it, like some horrendous cosmic joke. He catches sight of a distorted reflection of himself in one of the coffee maker’s shiny knobs, and makes a face at the stranger.

“Oi, when you’re finished having a staring match with the appliances, do me a favor and pick up the pace, Tsumu,” Osamu drawls from behind him, sounding unfairly impatient for a guy with an amnesiac, mildly-concussed brother.

Atsumu turns to face him, brows furrowed. “Samu, what’s with this _Magnifica Classico E9034S?_ ” He butchers the...Italian, and does not give a damn. He asks partly to annoy Osamu further, and partly because he is honestly curious. “I don’t drink coffee? I’ve never drank coffee. You don’t drink coffee either.”

It isn’t about the coffee, really, but Atsumu needs every bit of assurance that his entire world hasn’t shifted on its axis more than he suspects.

Osamu gives a healthy pause, and seems to realize that the nonchalance is an act, and Atsumu is a few revelations away from a total meltdown. “Uh, yeah. You don’t drink coffee. I imagine you got it for...guests. Look at you, all grown up and learning some consideration.”

This Atsumu shells out for classy coffee for guests? He doesn’t see the need for courtesy beyond some instant coffee packets, but go figure. In the context of all he has been told he has missed, this should feel less important than it does. Somehow, that thought doesn’t make it bother him less.

“Guests, huh,” he thinks aloud, and abruptly stops himself. He refuses to ask Osamu if he is familiar with Atsumu’s regular, or irregular, company. Not that it seems any of that company is anything more than friends. If they were, they were probably more of the “with benefits” variety, and hearing any details of that from his sibling would be mortifying.

Last that Atsumu recalls, he wasn’t looking seriously for a long-term intimate partner, content with occasional and casual flings. His mindset is now two years and change out of date, but surely anyone he was seeing seriously would have been notified, would have stopped by, even though Atsumu can barely imagine having a lover, much less fathom the idea of being told your lover forgot all about you. Would they want to break up? Would they want to maintain the relationship regardless? Would they never say anything at all?

Either way, Osamu would have known to contact them, especially with Atsumu’s phone out of commission, the one tragic casualty from the accident. Based on the scant evidence of anybody else in Atsumu’s apartment (there’s barely evidence of himself), and the people who came to visit him in the hospital besides Osamu and his parents, he is closest to his teammates. That, at least, is nothing new to Atsumu, though some of his teammates’ lives certainly are.

The first face he clearly remembers after waking up in the hospital was his brother’s—placid at first glance, but the tiny furrow in his brow and deep eyebags spoke otherwise. That was how Atsumu knew it was something serious, if the hospital setting hadn’t clued him in. Osamu told him it was already the third time he’d woken up, though the first he was coherent. After Osamu, his parents arrived fresh off a train from Hyogo in a flurry of well meaning, but overwhelming concern, and took charge of their son’s health like he wasn’t already an adult. Atsumu let them, content with waiving responsibility for those first confusing hours and eager to recuperate back home.

However, once it was apparent that despite minor physical injuries, Atsumu had some sort of “cognitive irregularity” (“Always knew you were missing something in that noggin” “Shut up Samu!” “Osamu, honey, maybe this really isn’t the time”), the doctors extended his stay for more tests. His parents ended up returning home after a couple days and many more assurances that Osamu would look after him. After that, his teammates and the Jackals’ staff visited in small groups.

First, Coach Foster and the Jackals’ trainers came to assess. A national team athletic trainer, Iwaizumi, accompanied them. It was a bit unsettling, the first concrete proof of an unfamiliar face that Atsumu should have known, but Iwaizumi introduced himself (again) without losing a beat, clasped his shoulder firmly, and reassured him that he would be back on the court in no time as long as he followed the recovery plan to the letter. His mouth smiled, but eyes spoke volumes to what would happen if Atsumu didn’t follow said plan. 

Then, Meian, concerned, but reassuring, dropped off flowers from the team. Inunaki, accompanied by Adriah and Oliver, followed shortly after, sneaking in some conbini snacks and pudding. The final day of his stay, Bokuto, respectfully quiet, but vibrating with energy, gave him a rousing pat on the back after confirming that his body was (mostly) fine. Akaashi Keiji tempered this enthusiasm with calm and a wry smile, and Sakusa lurked behind them both, mask firmly in place, quiet and intense as usual save for a mumbled “you’ll be fine.”

Thinking of Sakusa, dour-faced in the bleakness of the hospital, but still making the trek to pay his sympathies, makes his heart twinge with affection. Maybe he can chalk it up to concussion-induced emotional reactions, but it’s weirdly comforting to find his prickly teammate so remarkably consistent with Atsumu’s current memory of him, when everybody else’s relationships to himself and each other are two years down the road and he is playing catch-up. 

The little changes in relationships unnoticeable over a long time have been slowly trickling into Atsumu’s awareness, but it has built into something akin to a flood of new and sometimes strange and surprising information. Though he has only met his family and teammates and a few acquaintances so far, it’s eerie—these glimpses of a slightly different Atsumu, a slightly different life. Meian mentions a son when Atsumu only recalls a daughter. Inunaki cracks inside jokes like Atsumu remembers all the antics that started them. Bokuto and Akaashi were always dancing around each other before, but apparently give it two years and all Atsumu sees are their matching rings and easy intimacy. Hinata is not just two years gone from memory but ten thousand miles gone from the country. Even Osamu, forever a constant, is holding back something, and it’s driving Atsumu nuts.

As if summoned by the thought, Atsumu hears Osamu shift uncomfortably behind him. He realizes he's been spacing out again. Osamu coughs.

“Anyways. Your hospitality is unmatched, I’m sure. But unfortunately you’re gonna have to put a pause on your tea parties or whatever the heck you’re up to these days—”

Atsumu whirls on Osamu, wincing a bit at a spike of dizziness despite himself. “You don’t know?”

Osamu startles a bit, and seems to choose his words carefully. “Uh. It’s not that I _don’t_ know...just, well,” he sighs a bit, mumbling under his breath, something like _not again,_ but goes on in a deliberately neutral voice.

“Tsumu. We’ve both got busy lives and careers now. Nothing is ever gonna stop us from knowing each other’s business if we want or need to, but we—you—haven’t _needed_ to in a while.”

Osamu fixes him with a steady, calm gaze. Atsumu knows from his expression that he is telling the truth. It still stings, still echoes a fight seven—nine—years ago. _I made up my mind a long time ago..._

Osamu doesn’t let him dwell on it though. He clears his throat again and gestures down the hall. “Now c’mon, lemme show you the bedroom. Let’s hope you got better at cleaning in the last two years, for your own sake.”

“Huh? What do you mean by that? You become the boss of the chores in my place these last couple years, Samu?” Atsumu snipes back, stuffing down the phantom pang of loneliness.  
  
“Nothing nothing—just it’ll be easier to find your stuff, if you forgot.”

Atsumu dimly wonders if his taste in fashion has changed as much as his taste in beverages.

\---

Osamu walks into the bedroom first and Atsumu has a sense of trepidation following him in, like he is sneaking into a stranger’s bedroom.

He glances around, taking in the space. Twenty-six-year-old future—current—Atsumu isn’t too different from the Atsumu he feels like, but there are enough changes even apparent in the bedroom that it feels like a jacket a size too small; he can picture himself in it clearly, could even squeeze into the shape, but it is uncomfortable.

Atsumu looks at the navy bedspread and neatly made double bed—the navy made sense, he likes the color, but neatly made when he’s always rolling out of bed for a run before practice? The double is a nice upgrade though. He wanders over to look at the bookcase which has sparse, but tasteful decoration. Atsumu doesn’t care for interior design, he is all about function first, but the placement of the few knick knacks between small storage boxes and books is deliberate and, dare he imagine, stylish. His eyes linger briefly on a small display case with a flash of gold, but thinking about what he missed makes his head hurt right now, so he stops and moves on.

By the window, a different splash of color catches his eye. A strange green monstrosity sits on the edge of a small desk. He pads over and stares down at it. Surely, it is an abomination of nature. Short, floppy arms sprawl from the center of the pot, and firm, waxy leaves spiral around each limb in a regular pattern. It gives the impression of a cross between a pinecone and an octopus.

“What the hell is this?” He turns to ask Osamu. His brother glances over before swiveling back to pull open the closet. 

“Dunno, Tsumu, looks like a plant if I ever saw one.”

“Smartass. I know that. I’m asking why—” anyone would think Atsumu can care for a plant, much less Atsumu himself. He doesn’t really leave an impression of household conscientiousness after either a short or long acquaintance.

The plant appears healthy enough though, a lustrous bright green, so he decides to ignore it for now. “Y’know what, nevermind. What’s got you so interested in my wardrobe?” He joins Osamu at the closet.

“Just thinking about how your fashion never graduated from high school. And damn it all Tsumu, for a guy I haven’t lived with for over five years, you sure have enough of my clothes in here.”

It’s true. Atsumu recognizes his favorite leisure wear brands from high school, and even some well-loved hoodies that he wore at Inarizaki. There are also a number of jackets and shirts that are undoubtedly Osamu’s, even two years removed from his last recollection. Most of the clothes are neutral colors, with an occasional deep red or blue mixed in. Typical men’s athleisure wear. There are a handful of brighter, even neon, garments hanging to one side, but they look untouched. Not really Atsumu’s style, but they are probably just freebies from promotional work.

As he pokes through the clothes, Atsumu feels the acute loss of his sense of this world crescendoing. The clothes look familiar enough, _these_ jackets should fit, but instead of being too small, they somehow look like they are too big, like he would be playing dress up, acting like an Atsumu that he has yet to become, that doesn’t quite measure up.

“Samu.” He can’t do this right now, two hours out of the hospital and almost three years out from his comfort zone.

His brother looks over at him, and sighs, not unkindly.

“Tsumu.” He reaches into the closet and pulls out an (unfamiliar) duffel bag. “Just pack up quick, yeah? And you’re gonna hafta sleep on the couch. Yukie and I are fixing up the spare room.”

Atsumu isn’t listening, just haphazardly grabbing clothes and shoving them in the duffel. He makes a quick sweep of the bathroom and regrets it immediately when he doesn’t recognize most of the skincare products stacked neatly on the counter. He grabs the toothbrush and basic amenities that look familiar enough, and ignores everything else.

With one last glance at the room before he follows Osamu back to the entryway, Atsumu pauses. He walks to the window, and gently lifts the small green nightmare into one arm. Osamu snorts when he sees it, but doesn’t comment otherwise as they make their way down to his car.

He’s got a lot to make up for, he thinks a little hysterically, and he’ll start by making sure that twenty-six-year-old Atsumu’s plant doesn’t die.

\---

At the very least, Atsumu thinks as the car heads into Osaka’s Moriguchi City and pulls up behind the original Onigiri Miya, Osamu’s place wouldn’t have any reason to change much in the last three years.

They tramp up the stairs to the apartment over the shop, but Osamu stops right before the landing, blocking the door.

“Ah.” He looks over his shoulder, down at Atsumu, with an inscrutable gaze. 

“What, your place a mess or something? Since when has that ever bothered me—I already know you’re a slob.” Atsumu says, eyes narrowing.

“I get the sense that you didn’t really listen to what I said before,” he fixes Atsumu with a flat look, and continues. “As if you ever listen. You do remember about Yukie, yeah?”

Sure, he can conjure up a vague image in his head. Brown hair, maybe? A little odd, a mischievous smile? Osamu only sketched in the barest of details around his own life since he woke up in the hospital. The doctors seemed to have an opinion that Atsumu would do better to remember on his own, if he remembers at all. That’s all fine and dandy, Atsumu thinks bitterly, but they’re not the ones left floundering for details. 

He peers past Osamu and spies an unfamiliar name plate by the door:

Miya 

Shirofuku

“I guess,” he finally replies. He’s not lying, he does remember that Osamu met a maybe-brown-haired woman at the end of the 2018-2019 V.League season. He just doesn’t remember anything else.

“Uh huh. Well. There’s another reason you don’t stay over as much anymore.”

“So you’re living with your girlfriend, so what. Nothing could be worse than when you first started your business, Samu, you disaster. I was taking care of you, and that’s really saying something. I’ll graciously ignore your sappy coupledom out of the goodness of my heart.” He doesn’t understand what Osamu’s being awkward about, so he’s just going to bluster through it like usual.

Osamu grimaces. “Hm, not exactly, but well, whatever, I’d have to tell you again at some point, it’s like a bandaid, rip it all off at once,” Osamu trails off mumbling, and without any further preamble throws open the door. Atsumu stumbles in behind him, drops his stuff, and starts pulling off his shoes as Osamu calls out a greeting. A cheery voice replies, and a woman’s head pops out from the entry to the kitchen.

“Osamu! And Atsumu-kun. Welcome back. Sorry about the couch, Tsum-Tsum, but Osamu and I are renovating the spare room for the little one.” 

Shirofuku Yukie is a tsunami and Atsumu is all at once adrift. He takes in the prominent bulge to her stomach and jumps to some hasty conclusions. He’s frozen with only one shoe off. The other in his grip comes off suddenly and flings backward. 

“Uh, right.” Atsumu tries for a smile, but his jaw drops too far and doesn’t cooperate. Shirofuku’s gaze sharpens and hones in on Osamu.

“Osamu. You didn’t tell him. Again.” She doesn’t sound mad or disappointed. If anything she sounds amused; there’s a quirk to her lips and a glimmer in her eyes. She comes out from the kitchen to stare at the two of them with her arms crossed, and one glance at the ring on her hand confirms everything that Atsumu concluded in the last fifteen seconds.

“I was kind of hoping he’d remember before we had to get into it again. Already had one conversation that I never thought I’d need to have again.” Osamu takes off his hat, scrubbing his hair sheepishly.

“Samu.” Atsumu swallows his shock and pours all the mock despair at his sibling he can muster into his tone, “I thought I was the one with amnesia, but how did you forget to mention that you are,” Atsumu glances at Shirofuku’s hand again, “engaged, and expecting?”

“My bad, Tsumu,” he deadpans, the bastard, “you might remember Yukie because I met her through Bokuto at a Jackals function, but you definitely didn’t remember that we’re engaged and expecting. Surprise.”

“What the heck, ya big jerk, holding out on me! When the heck were you gonna tell me! Again!” They’ve never been good at telling each other the big things because they never had to, growing up side by side. Atsumu knows why Osamu hesitated to tell him again; he doesn’t do well with big change. Well, lucky for him, Atsumu is generally blindsided by all of this, so what’s one more Big Thing?

His emotions lurch between deep regret for forgetting the first version of this happy news, and true elation for his brother’s happiness. He decides to focus on the latter. He can’t give himself time to feel bad about it, not when Osamu was already feeling awkward about it too, when he should feel nothing but joy.

“I’m happy for you! Again!” He smacks his brother playfully, and Osamu winces, but he’s not really looking at Atsumu anymore. He watches his brother’s smile go from sheepish to pure adoration when he looks at Shirofuku, and feels pride welling up for both of them, missing memories be damned.

Later, as Atsumu settles into the Miya-Shirofuku apartment, tossing his duffel by the couch and placing the weird plant on the coffee table, an unanticipated wave of melancholy hits him. He watches Osamu and Yukie dance around each other comfortably in the kitchen, exchange quiet, mundane conversation full of gentle affection, and make light jokes at Atsumu’s expense every so often. The wedding isn’t for another year or so, but they have such easy intimacy, and something aches deep inside of him when he watches it.

Atsumu _is_ happy for his brother and Yukie, but this _something_ twists his gut unpleasantly. He isn’t sure what it is. Jealousy? For his brother and his impending marriage, fatherhood? The easy domesticity? His happiness? It doesn’t feel right to describe it that way, but it feels uncomfortably like yearning. Like Osamu has something he knew once, too.

It looms over him that night when he curls up on the couch and runs through the day again. Barring the vague undercurrent of confusion that is his new normal, it was a good day, a happy day overall, so it feels weird to be so melancholic. He’s genuinely thrilled for his brother and future sister-in-law. They just brush against some other, tender part of him, something running parallel to that pride and satisfaction for his brother. Something he can’t remember.

\---

Atsumu might be missing a couple years of character development, but after three days of convalescing (“It’s mooching, no fancy word is gonna cover that up, you leech.”), he sees why Osamu said he doesn’t come around as much anymore, and it’s not just out of consideration for the couple.

It’s sickeningly sweet. Osamu and Shirofuku are a power couple in the weirdest way, like some protagonist from a ridiculous cooking manga ended up with his soulmate, the girl with a monstrous appetite, and they’re in their blissful epilogue. Atsumu feels like he’s got some bizarre time-skip whiplash, and he struggles to reconcile his deadpan, acerbic brother with this saccharine version of him. 

He loves his brother. He just doesn’t need to see him in love all the time. The older, wiser Atsumu surely already knew this.

He has a week total before he has to report back to the Jackals, but he’s not sure he’ll make it. He’s bored to tears; he’s not training, and not supposed to watch or read things with a concussion. He still doesn’t have a new phone, and isn’t supposed to look at screens for long periods of time anyways. Helping out in the shop breaks up the monotony of his recovery only so much, and Osamu doesn’t cut him any slack (“Work for your lodging, scrub”). He may just flee back to embrace twenty-six-year-old Atsumu’s plant tending, coffee-making lifestyle and glaringly apparent bachelorhood. 

Not that Atsumu would turn down a committed relationship, he muses as he watches a high school couple cheerfully feed each other at one of the shop’s tables. He has vague ideas of “settling down,” eventually. It wasn’t a priority before, though, and nothing Atsumu has seen of his current life makes him think it is now. Watching his brother in his shoujo manga happiness tickles some deep yearning in him, he’ll admit that, but being obligated to give him shit for it is enough to stave off the shadows of loneliness he feels slinking around the periphery of this life. 

To escape the all-but-newlywed atmosphere and culinary trial by fire, Atsumu takes to going on long walks that turn into light jogs through the neighborhood. He’s banned from strenuous exercise, but figures a leisurely pace is fine. Just enough to focus on the moment and the world around him as it is, instead of the past or the future and the Atsumu he’s meant to be.

Running comforts Atsumu in that way. He enjoys the habit, revels in paving a kind of ritual through the streets and parks, takes comfort in both the constancy and the change that it shows him. There’s always something new to see, but there’s also familiarity on the route. The grocer on the corner setting up fresh product under the awning gives a cordial nod, the florist watering planters outside their shop smiles politely, the young shop attendant arranging a window display waves if she looks up when Atsumu passes. People go about their lives and routines, and Atsumu is just a small recognizable part of their day, impermanent and inconsequential. No need for memories here.

=======

  
  


Atsumu manages to stick it out and the week ends without fanfare. He narrowly escapes before Shirofuku enlists his help to paint the new nursery. Osamu drops Atsumu and his plant back off at his apartment with a box of onigiri and a “Tsumu, don’t think too hard about everything. You’ll injure your brain more than it already is,” before driving off with a cackle as Atsumu tries to give him a one finger salute while balancing the plant and onigiri.

It’s Sunday afternoon. Atsumu ventures out for groceries and runs laundry, then spends the rest of the evening fiddling with his new phone, purchased yesterday. He always meant to be someone who backs up their phone regularly or syncs the photos to a cloud, but apparently twenty-six-year-old Atsumu had yet to achieve this feat; his new phone is as amnesiac as himself. He’ll have to get everyone’s numbers again when he gets back to practice. Some of his app passwords are the same (score!), but others elude him entirely, and he can’t be bothered to reset them tonight.

Instead, he lies across his bed, head tilting off the edge, and stares upside-down at his strange plant companion back on the desk. He should probably figure out what it is and how to best care for it, but it doesn’t look any worse for wear after the week at Osamu’s place. Lacking any sort of plant vocabulary, he gives up after a half-hearted google search, and goes to bed.

On Monday morning, he sleeps through his alarm after a restless night in his new, well, new-to-him apartment, and has to sprint from the station to practice. He arrives out of breath, but late enough to avoid the curious stares of his teammates in the locker room, who are already on the court warming up. He changes hastily and goes straight to a meeting with the coaches and trainers.

Atsumu was lucky. Despite the potential for serious injury, he escaped with a minor concussion and a few scrapes and bruises that scabbed over quickly. As an athlete, the thought of a concussion is terrifying, but he’s been following, well, running aside, _most_ of the recovery guidelines to the letter. He’s wary of a body that is a couple years older than he remembers, though as they review his health history, he has no major injuries of note from the last couple years.

When they finish and go out to convene a full team meeting, the Jackals are visibly disappointed to learn that Atsumu has yet to recover his memories over the last week. Atsumu knows they’re not blaming him, but he can’t help the hot prickle of shame creeping up the back of his neck. Even so, Meian claps his back heartily and tries to lighten the mood by reminding everyone that Atsumu was a monster at twenty-four, nothing wrong with another chance to sharpen his skills again.

He tried not to dwell on volleyball during his recovery week, but it was difficult to drown out when it’s all he lives and breathes, even in the off season. Now, in front of his expectant and encouraging teammates, anxiety surges. Every day the growing desperation to prove himself as worthy as he knows he should be as quickly as possible accumulates more. Atsumu is heavier at the thought.

“I’ll come back so good, you’ll all feel two years behind!” Atsumu spits out through a cheeky grin even as he shoves down uneasiness. The meeting adjourns shortly afterwards, and everybody goes back to drills, passing Atsumu with a friendly hair ruffle or a high five. Sakusa, as expected, does neither, but he does fix Atsumu with an oddly intense sort of stare, and pauses in front of him. 

“Omi-kun! What’s that look for? Sour ‘cause you’re missin’ my tosses?” Atsumu tries for a casual tone, and winces internally when Sakusa’s eyes only narrow further in scrutiny.

“Miya,” Sakusa’s voice is as dry and sobering as he remembers, thank the gods, but somehow it cuts right into Atsumu. He gives Atsumu a thorough look from head to toe. Atsumu shuffles a little. “Quit working yourself up. You’ll be back when you’re ready, and we’ll be waiting.”

He abruptly turns on his heel and stalks off, leaving Atsumu stunned. Well, Sakusa was never one to humor Atsumu’s moods, ever since he walked into the All Japan Youth training camp and had the audacity to size up Atsumu’s tosses and ego alike. He simply gave it his all and demanded it in like, much like Atsumu himself. In that respect, they work well together, but sometimes it feels like Sakusa knows Atsumu’s habits a little too well; who knows how much that familiarity extended now.

\---

A short while into morning practice, Iwaizumi arrives fresh off the shinkansen from Tokyo to assess Atsumu on behalf of the national team. Atsumu has only met Iwaizumi twice with his current memories, but it seems the trainer knows him quite well. It’s a little unnerving, not knowing where he stands with this stranger who knows his health and performance better than he does, probably, and Atsumu tries not to imagine his career hinging on this evaluation. Iwaizumi must know him well enough to read Atsumu’s forced smile for what it is, though, because he radiates efficient focus and steady support while walking him through various stretches.

“You’re too tense. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Atsumu-san,” Iwaizumi chides gently while testing Atsumu’s range of motion.

“Worry? Whatever could you mean by that, Iwaizumi-san?” Atsumu keeps looking away, not sure if he’s ready to dig into this with the trainer.

“Atsumu-san, I assure you, you’re doing everything right. I’ll be watching out for you, and so will your team, but our bodies remember more than our brains sometimes. You have excellent motor skill retention.”

 _Muscle memory._ That’s a generous thought, for sure, but Atsumu is still consciously missing two years of practices and games, of experience and growth. How much can he really rely on this amorphous, unconscious knowledge? Iwaizumi doesn’t seem the type to sugarcoat his words. Atsumu wants Iwaizumi to tell him straight.

“Iwaizumi-san, can I ask you something?” Atsumu hesitates, but Iwaizumi nods encouragingly. “What’s the worth of a player like me now? Forgetting plays, opponents, games. Even muscle memory, instinct, and strategy, those things are honed from practice, from repetition. What’s a guy without the work? How can I be who I need to be? Better, and faster? In your professional opinion...”

Iwaizumi pauses in his ministrations, and Atsumu sits up from the treatment table to face him properly. There’s a sort of mystified look on his face, like he sort of can’t believe Atsumu’s even asking. Atsumu feels his cheeks warming, though with embarrassment or shame (or both), he’s not sure. Iwaizumi huffs a small chuckle and crosses his arms.

“Atsumu-san,” he starts, “for what it’s worth, even though this might feel like a monumental setback, in my professional opinion, you’re going to be fine. Hell, better than fine, you’re going to come back better than before.” Iwaizumi catches Atsumu’s eye with a warm look. “And though you didn’t ask for it, in my personal opinion? You’re too stubborn to let this hold you back.”

Atsumu stares, surprised by his conviction. Some of the pressure on his chest lifts. The ghost of a real smile pulls at his lips.

Iwaizumi smiles back. “As for what you can do to ‘be better faster,’ I’d say don’t think about trying to match who you were or who you think you should be. There isn’t a finish line. Growth is continuous. Strength is relative. Focus on who you are now, and what you need to do next, not what you needed to do two years from now, two years ago.”

Atsumu really does feel embarrassed now. Somehow, Iwaizumi saw through him and all his insecurities, just like that. “Geez, Iwaizumi-kun, way to bare my soul.” He wiggles his eyebrows a bit for a stupid effect and to steer away from this vulnerable feeling, but Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to take the bait.

“You remember, what was it, the end of the 2018-2019 season? So, right before you got the call to the national team. We wanted you from then, there’s no reason to doubt that now, not after you were on the team that won gold.”

Iwaizumi picks up a binder and starts jotting notes as he keeps talking.

“You were a hot prospect, Atsumu, and you still are in my books. I don’t think you need to be worrying about losing a place here or really anywhere, not with the offers you’ve had flooding in.”

Atsumu was swinging his legs off the table and nearly slips off ungracefully at the words. 

“Offers?”

For a split second, Iwaizumi looks like he regrets his words, but he smiles again, so Atsumu must’ve imagined it. “Yeah. Offers. The national team has to keep track of our players abroad, you know?”

“Foreign leagues considered me?” Atsumu should feel flattered, he knows that, and a part of him definitely warms at the idea, another half-baked daydream from childhood. Somehow, though, the rest of him freezes, stuttering at the thought. He said no? For what? Was it the logistics? The money? Or worse, was he scared? What did the Atsumu-he’s-supposed-to-be want, if he didn’t say yes, if it dredges up such an awful mess of feelings?

Iwaizumi looks away and continues scribbling his notes nonchalantly. “They were just offers. France, Germany, the U.S., and others. I know because you asked for my opinion, especially with my partner’s experience going abroad. The JVA supports players’ decisions to seek new strengths in new places. But there’s nothing wrong with staying either. You can grow stronger here too.”

Atsumu mulls over this new information as Iwaizumi finishes his notes. He really gave it some serious thought, then, if he was asking around for advice. But it feels so wrong, somehow, awakening this dread, this urgency, but to what?

Of course, whatever Iwaizumi says about his strength and ability, he’s not who they wanted right now, right? 

Iwaizumi seems to realize how that came across as dismissive, and quickly spins around, pinning Atsumu with a determined gaze.

“Hey, don’t think that means you’re not as valuable now, or that you’re settling or anything. I don’t know if I’m right to tell you this, and who knows, maybe you’ll rethink it now, but between you and me, I have full faith in your original decision to stick with the Jackals.”

Stay. He had decided to stay. Something settles in his bones, that anxious fluttering stills. In his heart, this is right, for some reason.

“...Thanks for telling me, Iwaizumi-san,” Atsumu says as he hops down from the table and readjusts this training wear. Iwaizumi finishes gathering up his paperwork, and the conversation turns back to business, going over some additional recovery plan details with Iwaizumi’s assurances that Atsumu is in good shape for a full return.

Atsumu’s about to head out of the treatment room, bowing politely to Iwaizumi, somewhat shy after spilling his insecurities. He stops at the door, one last question on his mind after all that he learned.

“Did I ever tell you why?”

Iwaizumi looks up from his paperwork. He doesn’t ask what Atsumu means. His gaze looks past Atsumu, eyes miles beyond him in some other time or place. He fiddles with his hands for a second, and Atsumu notices for the first time that Iwaizumi wears a ring. It looks like a wedding band. He twists it unconsciously, and only stops when he tracks Atsumu’s gaze.

The smile on his face isn’t for Atsumu even though he’s looking at Atsumu; it’s something private, quiet, content. “You said you had something you wanted to see through to the end.”

Atsumu nods, not sure what to make of that on top of everything else. He murmurs his thanks again, and quietly leaves.

\---

Iwaizumi and the other trainers cleared him to start light conditioning this week with an incremental return to practices starting next week. It is fortunate that it is the off-season. Missing experience aside, Atsumu doesn’t feel too far behind his teammates in what he can be doing versus what they are doing, though his fingers ache to send tosses as he watches them run through spike-receive drills and practice matches.

Practice finishes while Atsumu is in yet another meeting. Most of the team is cleaning up when he grabs his stuff from his locker to head home. As he rounds a bay of lockers, he nearly runs into Sakusa, fresh from the showers and already dressed, flushed cheeks peeking out from under a mask. He smells like eucalyptus. Atsumu doesn’t know why he knows that. His cheeks warm slightly as he realizes he’s been staring at Sakusa a beat too long and blocking the door.

“After you, Omi-kun,” he says, and pushes the door open for Sakusa, then falls into step beside him. They both head for the exit in a comfortable silence.

In all the years Atsumu has known him, Sakusa rarely initiates the conversation when it’s just the two of them. From curt introductions and thinly veiled contempt to begrudgingly terse approval at youth camp, Sakusa had not yielded much by the time their careers intersected in the Black Jackals. History aside, they were now friendly enough for teammates from what he recalls, and Atsumu thinks he understands Sakusa’s quiet a little more now.

Sakusa’s quiet is all sharp focus before games, communicative glances and gestures during a rally, smug satisfaction when serving, and just content, malleable exhaustion after all is said and done. He says a lot by saying very little. When he deigns to speak to Atsumu, it’s usually acknowledging Atsumu’s antics and ramblings with dry humor, or maybe just tolerance, with the rest of the team. He rarely offers anything more than a scathing one-line rebuttal to accompany a nod or a Look.

So Atsumu’s heart stutters when a hand grabs his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. He stops walking abruptly and Sakusa lets go as though scalded. There’s a pregnant pause. Inexplicably, Atsumu has the urge to apologize, but Sakusa speaks first. 

“Miya.” Sakusa draws his hands back into his pockets. “Don’t pick the scabs. You’ll scar.” He looks slightly contrite for invading Atsumu’s space, but quickly changes it to a look of judgment.

Atsumu realizes he had been mindlessly scratching at one of the minor scrapes on his chin. Most of the superficial face wounds have healed, but a few linger on as itchy scabs. He has a nervous tic of picking at injuries.

He mumbles a thanks, and wordlessly they both turn to continue walking down the hallway. Sakusa speaks again after just a few steps.

“So. How are you doing.”

“Geez, Omi-omi, could you sound any less concerned for your setter? I mean, clearly you care about my pretty face.”

Sakusa’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t retort. Atsumu continues, now on a roll.

“I’ll be back setting for you next week. Otherwise I’m spending the rest of the week doing light conditioning,” and he rambles on about the recovery plan. Sakusa nods along at appropriate points, but doesn’t say anything else.

“Gotta say, even though the little vacation was nice, I’ll be glad to be back at it. Not much to do on concussion leave. I was starting to think I’d go mad with only the plant for company.”

“Plant?” Sakusa arches a single, incredulous brow.

“Yeah. Speaking of, you’re a worldly guy, maybe you know what it is?” And he carefully angles his phone for Sakusa to see the photo of his alien plant.

“...It’s a _Sedum morganianum._ ”

Of course he’d know the scientific name. He crows triumphantly. “Knew I could count on you, Omi-kun, thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me.” 

“Why,” Sakusa’s brow lifts impossibly higher with skepticism.

“Well, if I’m being honest, I don’t really know. But I found it in my room, and I don’t recall being a person who keeps plants. Not that I recall much of anything from the last couple years, huh,” Atsumu jokes. Sakusa sends a long-suffering side-eye his way.

“Anyways. If the Atsumu I’m supposed to be kept it alive and well, I ought to try my best for the little monster. My only companion in this cruel world!” He’s laying it on thick, but Sakusa rewards him with a little huff. He can almost imagine a wry smile behind the mask.

They walk a little further before Sakusa glances curiously at him again. “If it’s such a monstrosity, why are you so invested?”

“Dunno, but I figure it must be important to me, yeah? ‘Specially since I’ve managed to keep it healthy before this. So, can you, maybe. Spell that for me? I want to look up how to take care of it.”

Sakusa coughs, or scoffs, or something. After a moment he says,“I have a book I can lend you. I’ll drop it off for you.”

“For real? Are you sure it’s okay? I’ll take real good care of it, promise. And you don’t hafta go out of your way, just bring it to practice.”

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise.” Sakusa’s gaze slides away and focuses back ahead. “And we’re—neighbors. It’s not out of the way.” Neighbors? That’s news. He’s so flustered by an unusually helpful Sakusa that he doesn’t stop the next thought out of his mouth.

“Say, if you’re free, how about I just come pick it up now? Let me get a glimpse of the Jackal’s star hitter Sakusa Kiyoomi’s lifestyle~” He coos like some of the interviewers they entertain for their job.

Sakusa fixes him with another odd look, brows still drawn together but pulled upwards, now more in confusion than annoyance. It gives Atsumu the oddest urge to reach out and wipe them smooth. He barely restrains himself.

“So, how about it? Onwards to your—?” place, he almost finishes, but another voice booms from behind him.

“Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto slides up to Atsumu’s other side and grips him with a companionable arm over the shoulder. “Let’s celebrate your recovery! Keiji is in town. We’ll take you out! Unless,” and he peers over at Sakusa, “you two already made plans?”

“Well—”

“No, we didn’t,” Sakusa cuts him off just as they arrive at the front doors. “You should go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he turns to walk out, waving off Bokuto’s invitation.

“Social as ever, I see,” Atsumu comments, refusing to examine anything in that entire exchange until he’s in the privacy of his own home. Bokuto doesn’t look up from his phone, probably texting Akaashi. 

“Actually, you know—well okay, maybe you don’t know? He comes out a lot more often nowadays. Like, for team outings and fan events, he doesn’t even complain, but even just in small groups, like with you and me and Wan-san, he’ll hang out with us. Speaking of, is it okay to invite more people?”

Atsumu hums noncommittally and watches Sakusa’s figure grow smaller and eventually blend in with the rush-hour crowd.

=======

A few other teammates and staff end up joining their impromptu dinner plans, and Atsumu finds himself squished into his seat by Inunaki, who is still in a spirited debate with Bokuto across the table after the group tried to recount some of their more memorable games to Atsumu. Everyone ended up sidetracking into various side conversations by now, and Atsumu is surprisingly content, nursing his drink with half an ear on the background conversations.

Across from Atsumu, Akaashi Keiji quietly and efficiently grills meat and continues distributing pieces at their end of the table. Atsumu eats with careful nonchalance, and weighs the merits of initiating small talk.

Atsumu likes Akaashi well enough, but the former setter unsettles him slightly. Nobody who communicates with Bokuto so fluently and appears so normal otherwise can be fully trusted in Atsumu’s book. He’s also not sure where he stands with this Akaashi. They were loose acquaintances at best, before, but mutual connection through Bokuto and Shirofuku may have changed that.

Akaashi saves him the trouble of working up the courage to ask by speaking first.

“Atsumu-san, Shirofuku-san mentioned that you stayed with them last week.” He portions out the next round of meat, and then flips the tongs, offering them to Atsumu. Atsumu takes the tongs politely and takes over grilling.

“That’s right. Leveled up in onigiri making too. Or again, I guess. Thanks to Samu...” So Akaashi does know more about his personal life. He hesitates, and Akaashi waits patiently. Screw it, Atsumu thinks, it’s not like he remembers if he has anything to lose here.

“Keiji-kun, you’re a smart man. Observant too, I reckon,” he looks up from grilling to meet Akaashi’s gaze, “and I know you watch most, if not all of the Black Jackals games, thanks to Bokkun here. You came with him to the hospital, so I’ll hazard we’re on friendly-enough terms.” Akaashi doesn’t object. “So, tell me. What are your impressions of me right now? Like, what you and others think of me. I mean, the me I was before all of this. Nobody else has been real forthcoming with anything.”

Akaashi looks sort of amused by the question, irritatingly enough. It’s not for the sake of his ego, well, not entirely. Atsumu just wants a sense for what he might be missing out on, or if, somehow, others miss a part of him too.

“We are on friendly terms, as you put it, thanks to all of our mutual acquaintances. Though, I’ll be honest and say I’m partial to your brother,” he answers first, completely deadpan. Atsumu might normally take mock offense at that, but he doesn’t have it in him tonight, and it sounds like an old joke. He waves it off obligingly, attention back on the grill as Akaashi seems to think over a full response.

“You seemed happy, Atsumu-san. More self-assured, less arrogant. I’m sure the medal helped with that,” Akaashi regards him carefully, “but even before the Olympics, you had an air of content, and also conviction. There was probably more to it than I know. ”

Atsumu stings a little at the ‘arrogant’ description, but Akaashi is not wrong. Atsumu worked hard to rebuild himself after high school, first deep in the benches of Division Two, then starting, then the offer from the Jackals. He didn’t know himself as a setter (or a person) outside of Osamu and Inarizaki as well as he thought he would. It was humbling, so he overcompensated in other ways sometimes. That memory is still fresh and tender right now, for this version of him. It’s comforting to hear this slice of the future though, that he overcomes it.

He wonders what Akaashi means by more. “Why do you think everyone’s tiptoeing around me then? What’s there to hide about that happiness?”

Akaashi hums, and grabs the tongs from Atsumu’s hand, some forgotten meat starting to char on the table grill.

“Memories make us who we are,” Akaashi states matter-of-factly, “The way we experience things now is built on what we’ve experienced before. Constantly building our sense of self, consciously and unconsciously.”

Atsumu doesn’t have any response to this, but Akaashi doesn’t seem to expect any. He carries on, almost too dispassionately for a guy grilling meat while expounding on some cognitive theory.

“So what does it mean to lose memories, as you did? Are they really lost?” Akaashi muses, “Are you the same person you were before the accident? I’d say no, based on the first assertion. That would be the logical answer.

“In that case, there’s no point in telling you about these things, since as far as you remember, you didn’t experience them, and you’re not really the same person who did.”

Even without the amnesia, Atsumu forgets Akaashi can be a bit blunt in observation. “Geez, Keiji-kun, way to kick a guy when he’s down. So my accolades are all for nothing then? The other me gets all the credit and this guy,” he gestures to himself, “is back at square one?”

Akaashi frowns a little at him, and hands the tongs back across the table. “Tell me, Atsumu-san, do you really feel like the Atsumu you’ve heard or read about so far? Do you like to hear about your exploits in the third person? Do you connect with them?”

Akaashi is right. They all sound like a stranger to Atsumu, someone roleplaying him. Something he _would_ do, but _didn’t,_ even though he did.

“I guess it feels a little wrong,” Atsumu admits, “and like. I’m living in the future here, y’know? Everything feels like a spoiler. If I did something in the last two years to be proud of, I’d want to meet the challenge again on my own merit, as I am now, not because someone told me to do it or be like that or that I already did.” He pokes at the meat on the grill in lieu of anything else to say to that.

Akaashi starts speaking again. “At the end of the day, what is two years? Half a degree in university. Two V.League seasons. An eternity on the internet. It’s all relative, but in the grand scheme of it all, hardly the majority of your life.”

Akaashi looks down like his overflowing plate holds all the answers, and fiddles with his hands. Then he looks back up, and catches Atsumu in an intense stare, more fierce that Atsumu would expect from the quiet editor.

“Still. The romantic in me wants to believe that some part of you, deep in your heart, or your soul if you will, still remembers. Is still the same person. Wants the same things.”

Something in Akaashi’s eyes gleams with knowledge, and Atsumu despises him for it, as lost without his moorings it makes him feel. The spell breaks when Akaashi reaches for the tongs.

“Atsumu-san, the meat is burning,” he says gently.

Atsumu heaves a sigh and almost gives into the urge to collapse on the table right there in frustration. “Ahhhh, I hope you’re right. Keep your secrets then, Keiji-kun. Let’s quit the serious talk before it spoils the meal.”

“Let’s just say that of all people, Atsumu-san,” he says, eyes glinting through the smoke, “I can understand the desire to avoid spoilers.”

\---

By the end of the meal, Atsumu feels refreshed from a night of company outside his own thoughts, but exhausted from all the catching up. The conversation with Akaashi bounces around his head the entire train ride home. When Atsumu gets back to his apartment though, the thoughts fly away when he spies the bag hanging from the door handle.

Inside is a book, _Growing Pains: A First Time Plant Parent’s Guide._ A small neon green sticky note sticks out from the top, and Atsumu flips to the page to find the instructions for the care and growth of _Sedum morganianum,_ also known as _“Burro’s tail,”_ the katakana above the English informs him:

_«Burro’s tail», or donkey’s tail, is an ideal plant for the novice gardener or frequent traveler. Care is simple and infrequent._

_Place the plant where it will receive bright indirect light. Water once a month, letting the topsoil dry out completely before watering again._

The sticky note marking the page has vaguely familiar writing in a neat, steady hand on it:

_Keep the book. Consider it a hospital discharge gift._

_-Sakusa_

Something warm blossoms in Atsumu’s chest at the note. He is a little giddy at the thought of Sakusa’s consideration for him.

He flips through the pages mindlessly while thoughts about Sakusa distract him. Something that people always associate with the spiker is consistency, whether it's sports commentators or opponents. Atsumu appreciated it when he first woke up and Sakusa still fit in the same character mold he remembered, so it’s all the more remarkable now that Sakusa’s breaking from that mold, at least to Atsumu’s compromised recollection.

Maybe more has changed between Atsumu and Sakusa in the last two years than Atsumu expected. They’re neighbors—Sakusa clearly knows where Atsumu lives. Sakusa volunteered to give Atsumu this book. He joins Bokuto and the others when they all go out.

Or maybe Atsumu is reading too much into some kind words and a book. It’s hard to imagine any kind of relationship when he now knows a moment can take it all away. Clearly he’s had two years and nobody to call special in that time. There’s a loneliness, and emptiness that weighs heavy on Atsumu’s mind and curdles at the edges of this apartment. Maybe he’s just latching onto the first inkling of normalcy that Sakusa brings him.

He snaps the book closed. This is too much to think about right now. He even told Akaashi that he’d prefer to meet his life and challenges again as he is now. So he’s out a couple years of memories, so what? Maybe it’s a good chance to make a new friend.

Atsumu’s restlessness rears its ugly head, legs shaking, fingers quivering. His head is still spinning from practice, from dinner, from all the conversations he’s had today, and now from the warm feelings sprouting from Sakusa friggin’ Kiyoomi’s plant care book. 

It’s late, but he changes into sweats and a t-shirt and pulls on his running shoes anyways. He ends up running harder than he should be, but for the first time since he woke up this morning, maybe even since he woke up eight days ago, his mind is quiet, breathing steady, feet pounding the pavement at a steady beat, just moving forward.

=======

After his midnight run, he recommits himself to follow his recovery to the letter for the rest of the week. It’s tedious; he wants nothing more than to be back to normal, but he manages to follow it and only calls to complain to Osamu every other day. He’s still not supposed to read a lot or watch a lot or really use his head much at all (“Since when do you use your head anyways” “Cut me some slack, Samu! I’m dying of boredom here”). He sleeps in later than usual. He goes to practices and observes a little, starts conditioning work under strict observation by the training staff. 

On Friday, he goes to the hospital for a check up. He’s had no further complications from the concussion, so the doctor clears him for full activity. As for the memories, there’s nothing new to report. Do what you’ve always done, the memories may come back, they may not, we can’t know for sure, the brain is a mysterious thing, et cetera. 

Atsumu would appreciate the mystery a little more if it didn’t apply to his entire life, maybe. So he tries to rebuild his routine from the clues he can glean from his apartment.

He pokes through every closet, cupboard, and drawer, noting what things look most used. The bathroom’s assortment of facial treatments still make no sense to him, and he has to look up what all the serums? Essences? Cleansers? Are supposed to do. Half of them don’t make any sense for his skin type even though they look used, so he just avoids them.

He finds the instructions for his fancy coffee machine, makes one drink with the beans he finds in the cupboard, and immediately spits it out. He’s pretty sure he made it correctly; the movements felt eerily familiar. Apparently just his taste buds don’t remember enjoying coffee.

He follows the training diet he finds notes for, confirmed from the team nutritionist. Shirofuku adds her own two cents when she and Osamu come for dinner one weeknight. Osamu prods Atsumu to try cooking, promising he’ll supervise (“I am mentally twenty four, Samu, not four. Pretty sure I remember how to cook.” “I want to see what you remember”). To everyone’s surprise, Atsumu manages to cook them all dinner with impressive flair. Nobody is more impressed than himself. Samu claps him on the back with a heavy hand and a, “I didn’t teach you all of that, so maybe you’re starting to remember?”

After that, he cooks a lot more. He found a recipe box with little notecards, some in his parent’s handwriting, a few with Osamu’s messy scrawl making adjustments, and some from teammates. Atsumu even recognizes a few in a familiar, steady hand, and they seem frequently made, crisp paper edges worn from constant reference.

\---

Then the weekend rolls around and a mid morning run brings him right to Sakusa at the corner of his block. His teammate is clearly returning from a grocery trip, hefting three bags topped with veggies and other sundries with one arm, and cradling a sack of rice with the other.

Atsumu stops abruptly in front of him and smiles. “Omi-kun! What a coincidence.” Friends, friends. How do you make friends with someone you might have been friends with before, but forgot?

“Miya,” Sakusa mutters from under the mask, tipping his head in acknowledgment, “good morning.”

Ah, what the hell. Overthinking has never gotten Atsumu anywhere. He’ll just go with his instincts. Something must’ve worked the first time around, right?

“Say, I never got a chance to thank you for the book. Lemme help you get that,” Feeling brave, Atsumu doesn’t wait for a reply before grabbing two of the bags from Sakusa’s straining fingers before he can protest. Sakusa, surprisingly, just nods gratefully, shifts the bag of rice into a more comfortable position, and starts walking. 

They go just down to the other corner of the block and enter another neatly kept apartment building. Atsumu realizes it is essentially opposite from his building on the same block. They might even be able to wave at each other from their balconies. 

In the elevator he hits the button for floor nine and pauses, finger over the number pad. “Sorry, habit. Same button placement for my apartment. What floor can I get you?”

“No need, that is my floor as well.”

“Nice. Say, are you on the, hm, northeast side? Do you have a balcony? We could wave hello.” Sakusa looks up in thought.

“No, my room faces south,” he finally answers, and the doors open to the floor. Sakusa walks out briskly. They stop in front of apartment 917, and Sakusa unlocks it, then unceremoniously gestures for Atsumu to follow him in.

Atsumu finds himself in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s apartment. It’s a similar open concept to Atsumu’s place, so he sees the whole of the living and kitchen areas right past the entryway. It’s simple, but cozy. There are quite a few plants decorating the shelves and side tables, lush in the warm glow from the south-facing windows, and in one corner, what appears to be a cat tree?

Atsumu almost drops the bags when something warm and soft brushes up to his legs. He looks down and sees a gray tabby winding around his ankles. It doesn’t scamper away when Atsumu sets the bags down and reaches to take off his shoes, and eventually follows him into the kitchen area. Sakusa doesn’t pay either of them any mind, already pulling out items from the bags lining them up neatly on a counter.

Atsumu doesn’t know what to do. “Say, Omi-kun, you seem to have a critter in your place.”

“That’s Miso.”

“Not so prickly like your owner, huh, Miso-chan~” Atsumu reaches down to scratch the cat’s chin and gets a contented purr in response. Sakusa makes a weird coughing noise again, and when Atsumu looks up, he quickly glances away. Sakusa is _laughing._ The edge of his mouth tilting up gives him away.

He’s only seen Sakusa in passing at practice, but realizes with a start that he hasn’t seen Sakusa smile once in the last week. Sure, his default expression hovers between deadpan and disdain and usually hides behind a mask otherwise, but up close Atsumu can see that there’s more to it than the usual sourpuss expression. Sakusa’s eyes have deep shadows below them. His hair is unusually unkempt, even for a weekend. He looks paler than usual.

He’s hit with the urge to make whatever made Sakusa look like that better. He wants to make Sakusa laugh for real again. But first:

“Say, Omi-kun, I know I sort of barged in on you here, and I’m a couple years behind on our teammate dynamic, so feel free to stop me if I’m overstepping, but...we’re friends, right?”

Atsumu looks up from petting the cat, and Sakusa looks bewildered, but gives a little nod. 

Atsumu smiles. “Cool. I figured. I mean, I didn’t expect it, but I kind of thought—” _this felt familiar, “_...well, anyways. You look a little off. Something the matter? Do you want to, I dunno, talk about it?

“And maybe you’re feeling awkward—heck, I sure do—’cause you know as well as I do that we weren’t super close or anything outside of teammates back before. But, it’s not like I’m a new person. I’m still the guy that becomes your friend, eventually. And I’m still your teammate, and your setter too. So I care ‘bout your well-being, and you don’t look too good right now.”

Atsumu looks up from petting the cat, and Sakusa has a sort of startled look that he quickly schools into neutrality. He purses his lips, and then his face relaxes, and he lets out a little exasperated sigh, though it seems aimed at himself more than Atsumu.

“It’s nothing much, just not sleeping well lately,” Sakusa admits quietly. “But, thanks. For your concern. And you’re right. We were—are—friends.” Sakusa looks almost wistful.

Atsumu stands up and starts helping Sakusa unpack the groceries, spying wipes on the counter and pulling them out to wipe down his hands, then the groceries, before sliding them over to Sakusa to put away. 

“Off-season blues or something?”

“Or something,” Sakusa answers, but doesn’t seem intent on elaborating.

“Believe me, I can relate.” Sakusa nods in response. They carry on with the groceries when a thought strikes him.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” What is he saying? Sakusa probably wants to mope or cope in peace, minus one Atsumu. Sakusa stops his movement, and Atsumu plows on anyway. “Osamu stopped by the other day and left me some top-tier ingredients. You like umeboshi, right? I make a mean koume onigiri—hey! Don’t give me that look!” Atsumu sees disbelief etched into Sakusa’s face. “I’m officially Onigiri Miya trained and approved and everything! I didn’t spend a week working there for nothing.”

“Working?” Sakusa asks, surprise evident.

“Yeah, I stayed with Samu after the hospital released me,” Atsumu explains. He continues before he can stop himself. “We came back here first, but I walked into my place and everything just felt so, wrong? Like something was missing. I mean. Obviously my memories are missing, but it was more than that. It was weird.” It’s still a little weird, if he’s being honest. The place feels too big for him. He can’t think of why he would’ve picked it. “So I went to mooch off him for a week to get my head on straight. ‘Sides, even though Samu thinks that it’s a miracle I remember how to cook, I knew how to cook before the accident. I mean, I know how to cook now, as I am now.

“So, what do you say? Honestly you’d be doing me a favor too. And nothing beats having someone else cook for you when you’re feeling down. Come over for some pick-me-up onigiri? A housewarming, version two-point-oh? Because we’re friends? Or let’s say as thanks. For the book. Take your pick.”

Atsumu looks away then, but feels Sakusa’s gaze, heavy with consideration, as he continues systematically wiping down items.

“What time?”

Atsumu’s heart jumps with excitement, but when he looks back up he schools his face into a friendly smile instead of the dopey grin that wants to break out. “Let’s say seven?”

“Seven o’ clock it is.”

They finish putting groceries away and Atsumu leaves with one last pat for Miso, mind already whirring with all he needs to get done before this evening.

\---

Atsumu spends the rest of the morning and a fair chunk of the afternoon cleaning his apartment. It’s not dirty, per se, he generally cleans up after himself thanks to a childhood of sharing a cramped bedroom. But, the apartment is dusty from disuse. It hasn’t been deep cleaned since he got back, and it’s due for a good once-over. Sakusa coming over is just a good excuse, Atsumu tells himself.

He manages to kill several hours by absolutely scouring his apartment, then another hour obsessively checking and rechecking that he has all the ingredients they need. He talks himself out of starting the rice three hours too early. He nearly calls Osamu, then thinks better of it, then calls him anyways and lets his brother’s usual teasing somehow calm him down while riling him up. He takes a long shower to clean himself from the sweat he worked up cleaning. He curses when he realizes he doesn’t have any new guest slippers in the genkan area, just his own and some random worn ones clearly too large for himself, so he runs to the Daiso down the street to buy new ones, then curses again when he realizes he has to shower again after sprinting half a block in the blazing summer sun and humidity. 

In the end, he has just enough time to start soaking and washing the rice properly so that it’s ready to start cooking in the freshly washed donabe that he unearthed from his cupboards when his new phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number. The message simply reads _“Walking up.”_

It is, give or take, seven minutes to go from the building’s front door to Atsumu’s apartment door, and Atsumu counts four hundred and fifty three excruciating seconds before a knock sounds. 

Atsumu yanks the door open a little more forcefully than either of them expected, Sakusa clearly a little startled and Atsumu fighting down a blush. Sakusa looks like he doesn’t know what to say, but settles on an informal “Good evening.”

“Omi-kun! Come on in. There’s new slippers in the shoe cabinet right there for you,” he points, “sorry about the cat pattern, it was the only one left.” That’s a small lie, but they reminded him of Miso. Sakusa squints at footwear, but doesn’t say anything, just shoves two small bags into Atsumu’s hand, takes off his facemask and tucks it neatly away, pulls on the slippers, and walks immediately into the kitchen, where he begins to wash his hands.

For some reason Sakusa looks far more comfortable in the space than even Atsumu himself currently feels. Atsumu feels like an imposter in his own celebrity apartment, but Sakusa is glamorous enough to fit in. Atsumu shrugs off the odd feeling. It must come with the strange discomfort of teammates and friends and acquaintances knowing more about his current self than he does. He still feels like a stranger in his own home.

He peers into the bags Sakusa gave him. “What’s all this?”

“Some treats.” 

The outside of the nicer bag reads “Hospital Discharge Gift” in the formal brushwork of a ceremonial gift. Inside is a fine bottle of sake. The convenience store bag has a six-pack of light beer. Atsumu quirks an eyebrow at Sakusa, but before he can ask, Sakusa anticipates the question.

“It’s off season. We can drink a little, unless your head injury is a problem.”

“Not that kind of problem, luckily. Thanks,” he replies. Sakusa dries his hands on the hand towel by the sink while Atsumu mentally gropes around for another conversation topic. “Uh. Well if you want to get started on these, there’s glasses, uh. In the cupboard to your right. The rice is all ready to cook and all the rest of the ingredients are prepared. Shouldn’t be too long, so make yourself comfortable.”

Wordlessly, Sakusa reaches over to pull down two glasses and Atsumu focuses back on cooking the rice. The silence, save for the crisp crack of the cans opening and the crackle of the stovetop flipping on, is unexpectedly comfortable, unlike the initial awkwardness at the door. 

Surprisingly, Sakusa breaks it. He asks about the ingredients that Osamu brought over. They talk about Onigiri Miya, and debate the best flavors.

As soon as the rice finishes and sits cooling in a sushi oke he nicked from Osamu’s place, Atsumu pulls out a pack of disposable kitchen gloves and grins at Sakusa. “I know you’re not a fan of hands directly on your onigiri, so think this’ll do? Samu would say it’s not quite the same as feeling the rice right in your hands, but what he don’t know won’t hurt him.”

Sakusa looks almost touched. His lips quirk, then pull into a smile. “I won’t tell.”

\---

They end up nearly knocking shoulders at the counter as they reach over and under each other’s arms to wet their hands, add more salt, and grab rice and fillings. It’s warm, and comfortable. It’s the first time Atsumu feels like his apartment has been a home, doing something so familiar with someone increasingly familiar. 

In a short time there’s a platter of onigiri for each of them and the rest of the meal passes comfortably. Sakusa easily falls back into a gentle ribbing that Atsumu remembers about their interactions before, and he takes it with the lack of grace and a healthy dose of sarcasm as he would. They end up in the living room watching a recorded match that a twenty-five-year-old Atsumu played. 

It’s weird, watching himself on the screen without remembering the game. A blond blur darting across the screen, plays and combinations that look foreign and familiar at the same time. There really is a lot to be said for muscle memory, Atsumu thinks, just like Iwaizumi said. All things considered, Atsumu’s playing hasn’t suffered greatly for the lack of some memories. But rewatching this game doesn’t bring back the surge of memories that Atsumu usually associates; there are no vignettes of particularly good plays, or jokes before the match, or the little echoes of victory and adrenaline.

It makes Atsumu restless, itching for something he can’t name. Instead of pride or satisfaction, he feels longing and frustration. On screen, a tiny Atsumu and Sakusa score. Then, their hands meet in a fist bump. He peeks over at Sakusa, all the way on the other side of the couch, who’s just quietly sipping his coffee and watching the screen with no visible reaction. 

He wishes he remembered that point of contact; the gap between them now feels too far. He stands up abruptly to shake off the feeling. Sakusa tilts his head curiously towards Atsumu’s sudden movement.

“Omi-kun, can I get you another drink? Or else some coffee, tea, water?” Atsumu turns and pretends to stretch to hide his blush.

“Coffee would be nice, thanks,” Sakusa murmurs, then turns his head back to the screen at a sudden burst of energetic commentary from the sportscaster. Atsumu flees to the kitchen quickly, and takes his time deliberately and diligently following the steps for making coffee with his fancy machine.

By the time the coffee is finished and Atsumu pours some water for himself, the blush has dissipated from his cheeks. He schools his expression into that of the charming host he should be, and carries over the fresh cup to Sakusa.

“Sorry, I don’t really know what I’m doing here, but apparently, I used to,” he can’t quite keep the nervousness out of his voice, but Sakusa probably can’t tell. “Don’t hold back, tell me if it’s terrible.”

Sakusa snaps out of the intense focus he had on the screen and looks down at the mug that Atsumu holds out to him. He murmurs his thanks, and takes it gently from Atsumu’s hand.

He almost seems lost in thought for a second, staring down at the mug in his hands. Atsumu watches, a little breathless.

“So?”

Sakusa seems to shake himself out of whatever reverie he was in. Without looking back at Atsumu, he takes a tentative sip, pauses, and breathes out softly. “It’s good.”

Atsumu mentally fist pumps. He takes his seat back on the couch, and it feels like they’re both trying hard not to look at one another.

“So...did you want to talk? About why you’re not sleeping well lately? My offer still stands,” Atsumu glances over at Sakusa, and senses his discomfort at the topic. He decides to back off, goes for an easy joke. “Or perhaps—could it be? Our Omi-kun with an active nightlife~”

That does get a reaction out of his companion. Sakusa turns his head sharply to glare at Atsumu. For a second, Atsumu thinks Sakusa might actually be offended, but what he thought might be hurt on the edge of his expression flickers into a more recognizably unamused, but humoring-Atsumu scowl.

Atsumu presses on, happy to be bantering again. “Nobody special in your life right now, Omi-kun? This star hitter on a champion team? The national team’s tall, dark, and handsome Sakusa-senshu?”

“No,” Sakusa gives Atsumu another long look. “So, what does that say about you, mister star setter on said champion team? The national team’s tall, blond, and bratty Miya-senshu? ”

“Omi-kun! You wound me,” Atsumu mock cries, “how could I think about getting a lover when I barely remembered my own address a month ago?”

Sakusa suddenly looks stricken, and oh no, that’s not the expression Atsumu was going for with his joking around.

“Ah, hey, look, it’s not all that bad, right? At least I didn’t leave anyone behind, y’know? If anything, it sort of feels like everyone’s left me behind.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sakusa asks, sounding a bit hesitant.

“Well. Medals, games, or whatever are one thing. I can train harder, I can learn again, I can keep winning—winning or losing won’t feel much different the second time around, when it comes down to it, at least for me,” Atsumu scrubs his hands through his hair, a little frenzied. “The real thing that gets me is that I don’t know where I stand with most people anymore. Or there’s things that happened, conversations I had, that I can’t experience the same way twice, because the other person has already been there, done that. And it’s hard not to feel like people have these expectations on me to be someone I’m not. They’re looking for someone I’m supposed to be, but don’t know if I can ever exactly be again.”

Atsumu stops, not sure if he’s waiting for a response or thinking of what to say next.

“...I don’t think you have to be the same person, again,” Sakusa says, after a moment. “And I don’t think anyone who truly cares for you will begrudge you for the change. They just...miss you, a little. Probably. It’s hard—it must be hard for them too.”

“Y’know, Keiji-kun says memories make us who we are, so I’m not the same person anymore, not quite. But he also said he wanted to believe that I am the same at heart. What do you think, Omi-kun? Am I the same? If you could pick, would you want me to be the same person, or would it be better to figure it out again, even if it meant a different result?”

Atsumu wasn’t looking at Sakusa when he asked that. It weighed too heavily on his heart the last few weeks, and pulls his gaze down now. But when he chances a look up, gauging Sakusa’s reaction, Sakusa looks straight forward at the screen. 

“You’re annoyingly good at setting and annoyingly observant and overall annoying as always, missing memories or not. I don’t think you need to worry about who you were or who you’re meant to be. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being with you—being teammates with you, in the last few years, it’s that you’ll figure out exactly what you should be,” he says with conviction.

They’re quiet again, and Atsumu thinks the conversation is done, but after a moment where Atsumu is lost in thought at his answers, Sakusa asks quietly, “What would you want, if this happened to someone else, say, someone special to you?”

Atsumu sits with that for a while, letting it bounce around his head with everything else. Finally he speaks, or more like thinks, aloud.

“I think it’d hurt a little. That something felt so deeply could be gone so easily. But it would hurt more to keep expecting things to be the same. I’d let them go, and hope they fall for me again. If I had someone like that, someone I forgot, I think I’d want to fall in love with them again.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond. The conversation ends there, and they both turn their attention back to the game.

\---

  
  


For all the serious conversation, they finish watching the match in a relaxed manner. It’s a little past ten by the time they say their goodbyes. At the entryway, Sakusa finishes tying his shoes and stands up, pivoting to face Atsumu.

Atsumu, fighting off a yawn, gives him a lazy smile. “So, how was it?”

“Fishing for compliments, Miya?” Sakusa snipes, without any bite.

“What can I say, I aim to please.” 

Sakusa sighs heavily, but looks amused. The evening softened his exterior. Good food, warm drinks, easy company. Atsumu hopes he gets the sleep he needs tonight. 

Sakusa pretends to think, and casts one last glance across the apartment from the entryway. “Your place could use some more plants.” 

“Sure, ignore the food I so painstakingly prepared, but roast my interior design skills. Listen, Omi-kun, we can’t all live in the photogenic urban jungle that you and Miso prowl.”

Sakusa huffs again, and his lips even quirk a bit at the edges. Atsumu lets his smile show back, fond and content.

“Thanks. For dinner.”

“Anytime, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says automatically, but it’s true. Sakusa regards him carefully, gives a little nod, then snaps his mask back on and pushes out the door. 

Atsumu stares at the closed door. All his sleepiness is suddenly wiped away, that anxious, buzzing restlessness from before back at full force. He wants to chase after Sakusa for some reason. He doesn’t want to be alone in this apartment for another night, not after all the warmth he didn’t know he was missing.

He sighs, pushes a hand through his hair, glances at his running shoes, then looks away. A quick run would help him shed this feeling, but it wouldn’t be doing his recovery regimen any favors. Instead, he goes to get ready for bed. 

As he flirts with sleep, he can’t help but savor the tendrils of warmth from this evening shared with Sakusa. He always admired the spiker when they coincided at national training camps or even once memorably on Japan’s U19 volleyball roster. Becoming official teammates made that admiration tangle dangerously with real, living affection, sprouting and thriving from near daily interaction. He put those feelings aside before though, intent on remaining a consummate professional. Besides, he had bigger goals to focus on.

At twenty-four, Atsumu was first and foremost an athlete, a monster with something to prove, sharpening his fangs and claws with a hunger for success. Romantic relationships were, at best, distractions; teammates were firmly excluded from candidacy. Sakusa, for his part, was as aloof and careful as always. They kept in time with each other effortlessly on the court, and danced around each other off of it.

Here, two years down the road, having met monumental goals in name if no longer in recollection, and with the knowledge of Sakusa’s companionship as a friend, he wonders at himself. How could this Atsumu stop himself from the surge of feelings this one evening inspired, if they hung out like this before more often?

To be twenty-six and to know he achieved a league championship, accolades and recognition on the world stage—why stop at that? Perhaps, Atsumu considers as the memories of the evening suffuse him with a tender happiness, this new Atsumu has something else—someone else—to strive for.

  
  


=======

Atsumu’s alarm goes off an hour before it has been, now that he’s officially back at full practice. He smacks his phone screen to shut the alarm off, blinks stupidly at his overly empty room and the morning light glinting off the plant, then rolls out from bed gracelessly and forces himself into the motions to prepare for his morning run. 

He isn’t expecting to run into Sakusa until later at practice when he’s had a couple hours to wake up and fortify his heart, but when he rounds the corner at the end of his block he has to stop quickly to avoid colliding with the man himself.

He nearly yelps despite himself. “Omi-kun!”

The spiker has also stopped short of Atsumu, dressed for a run as well, though he looks a little breathless already. 

“Hey neighbor,” Atsumu says casually, “just getting started or just getting back?”

“Miya.” Sakusa acknowledges him. “Just starting.”

“Me too. Mind some company?”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything, but makes a gesture that Atsumu interprets as “do as you please.” Atsumu grins. 

Wordlessly, they both turn east and start towards the Onji River. They keep an easy pace, not planning to overexert themselves before practice. Just light endurance conditioning. The sun is already up, but the city wakes slowly. This side of Higashiosaka is quieter in the morning, far away from the bigger draws of Osaka’s tourist and business centers. They only see a few shopkeepers, sluggish office workers, and drowsy students making their way to start the day.

They fall into an easy rhythm, and Atsumu’s thoughts wander while Sakusa guides their route with mindless ease. It’s been three weeks since the accident, but after the last week it’s become less disorienting than before. For all that he felt at a loss at the start, for all the pressure he has put on himself to recover quickly, he’s starting to feel like he only has more to gain now. He felt overwhelmed by a riptide, torn from a safe harbor, but finds himself swimming with renewed purpose.

The sun rises over Sakusa’s shoulder and draws up the well of Atsumu’s affection that stirred and flitted through his dreams last night. When he glances to his side to see the light break across his companion’s face, he feels the force of a dawn’s possibility wake his resolve too.

Maybe losing his memories made room for this, Atsumu thinks in a daze, heady from the run, from his feelings, from the glorious warmth of the sun on his face and the man at his side. 

\---

The next morning, the spectacle repeats itself, and so it goes for the rest of the week until Atsumu simply expects they have an understanding. Sakusa confirms this at the end of the week, when Atsumu is sprinting to the corner a full ten minutes later than usual and Sakusa is standing there, quiet in the early morning light. Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat, and he can’t quite attribute it to the rush to get there alone. 

Sakusa warms up to him at practice too. They chat about the drills, the upcoming season, other mundane things in the locker rooms, as they jog to warm-up, as they stretch to cool down. It feels right, even though Atsumu doesn’t remember what “right” would be anymore. He hopes it involves this though:

Sakusa, Bokuto, and Inunaki take him for dinner at a ramen stop two train stops from the gym, new to him now, but apparently a favorite of his that opened a year ago.

_(“Your favorite is the shoyu” Sakusa leans over to point it out to Atsumu._

_“Lemme guess, you’re a shio type, salty as you are?”_

_“Amazing, Tsum-tsum! Maybe you remember more than you thought!”_

_“Terrible, both of you” Inunaki mutters around a mouthful of noodles.)_

Atsumu passes some sort of plant parent approval test in Sakusa’s eyes, and when he comes over to help Atsumu repot his little monster plant he brings cuttings from some of his own plants.

_(“What do you think I should name ‘em?”_

_“You don’t have to name them”_

_“Omi-kun, not in front of the children! According to your book, we’re ‘plant parents,’ they need proper names. How about we call this prickly one ‘Omi-chan?’”_

_“Then this one that looks like a bad haircut can be ‘Tsumu’”)_

Osamu barges in unannounced when Shirofuku is on a business trip, and interrupts another onigiri making night. He raises a single, omniscient eyebrow at Atsumu, and takes over both the cooking and the verbal roasting.

_(“Let the professional handle this, Tsumu, you still can’t cut a cucumber for shit”_

_“Hey! You’re the one who trained me! If anything, it’s your fault”_

_“Miya, you’re very good at connections, but you have to cut through the cucumber skin...”)_

It’s too easy to fall into comfortable habits with Sakusa, and most surprising of all is that Sakusa lets him. He seems better for it too, the deep shadows under his eyes receding with every new day. So Atsumu keeps at it, this friendship thing, and quietly hopes for more.

\---

Atsumu goes to visit Osamu for dinner on a Friday and ends up staying the night. He hasn’t seen Sakusa since they returned from practice on Thursday evening, a rare day off and three-day weekend. They certainly don’t hang out every day, but it still feels weird, after all the time they’ve spent together over the last few weeks. The heat and humidity of summer hangs heavy in the air, and it feels full and ready to break into a storm. Atsumu knows the feeling well; his own feelings for Sakusa are much the same. 

Late Saturday afternoon finds Atsumu on the train back from Moriguchi with a box of Onigiri Miya’s finest. He texts Sakusa to see if he’s around for dinner.

There is no response, but he feels more comfortable intruding on his prickly teammate now than anytime he remembers before, so he detours to Sakusa’s building on the off chance he’s at home and not checking his phone. When he rings the intercom in the foyer, an unknown voice picks up.

“Hello? Who is it?” The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but Atsumu can’t quite place it. 

“Uh, it’s Miya. Atsumu. This is Sakusa’s place, yeah? I just wanted to—”

“Ohhhh Miya-kun! Come on up.” They hang up abruptly, and the door buzzes open. Atsumu, bewildered, makes his way up to Sakusa’s apartment. The door swings open right as he walks up, and Komori Motoya greets him.

“Miya-kun! It’s been a while,” he steps back and ushers Atsumu in with a smile. “What brings you to Kiyoomi’s place? I see you bring offerings to our humble abode.”

Komori looks like he’s in loungewear. From the entryway, Atsumu can see an open duffle bag with its contents strewn across an armchair. It screams intimate.

Komori doesn’t notice Atsumu’s hesitation at all. He gleefully reaches out to snag the Onigiri Miya box, and Atsumu just offers a weak greeting back and lets him. Before, Sakusa said he didn’t have a lover, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t pursuing someone. Or being pursued. By a former teammate who would have traveled over two hours from another prefecture. Shit. He’s making a fool of himself.

Atsumu just stares dumbly as Komori pops open the food container, when suddenly Sakusa pops up behind him and lightly smacks his head.

“Motoya. This is _my_ ‘humble abode’,”

“Yeah, yeah. You and Princess Miso. Whatever, I’m here for your long weekend, aren’t I?” Komori says, walking off towards the kitchen.

They’re on a first name basis? Atsumu inwardly despairs, and outwardly musters up a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, am I interrupting something, Omi-kun? Should I leave you two to your date night?” Atsumu all but croons. Sakusa frowns a little in response.

“Come in already. I just saw your text. We were about to order out for food anyways, so your timing was perfect.”

“I am known for perfect timing,” Atsumu quips, then says in lower tones, “No, really, Sakusa, just tell me if I’m in the way and you two can get back to your...date.”

Atsumu may be a big jerk sometimes, but he likes to think he knows how to bow out gracefully if need be. He cringes, waiting for the other shoe to drop and Sakusa to confirm his suspicions.

Instead, silence. Atsumu looks over at Sakusa, and his mouth is open, brows up, the picture of comical shock. His expression quickly cycles through something like confusion, mild disgust, and finally, to Atsumu’s bafflement, Sakusa starts laughing.

Not the dry huff of a chuckle he coaxes out sometimes. His mouth is wide open, airy sounds of glee coming out, eyes crinkled and twinkling in mirth. This is Sakusa in full hysterics. Komori’s head pokes back out of the kitchen with curiosity.

Atsumu doesn’t know how to respond, but Sakusa catches his breath and beats him to the punch.

“A—Miya. I’m—ha—sorry. I forgot that you—you. You didn’t know this back then either. Motoya is my cousin. He’s like a brother to me, but—!” And he breaks off into another wry chuckle, though now a little more composed.

Atsumu’s jaw drops. Heat creeps up the back of his neck. “You! He!” He points between the two. “You look nothing alike? What the heck?” He knows his cheeks are burning with humiliation right now, but something else warm tingles through his chest as well. Cousins. Not dating.

Komori saunters up behind Sakusa and playfully leans on his cousin’s (cousins!) shoulder. “Aw, like a brother? Kiyoomi, you do love me, huh. I knew I’m your favorite cousin.”

“Get off, you lanky string bean,” Sakusa shrugs Komori’s arm off his shoulder and half-heartedly swipes at the other’s face.

“Oh shut it you cranky loofah,” Motoya laughs and dodges, giving Atsumu a friendly grin, and was that a wink?

Sakusa looks back over at Atsumu. “So. You’re staying for dinner, right?”

Atsumu nods, dazed, but relieved.

\---

Misunderstandings aside, Atsumu has no reason to dislike Komori. The libero was always affable enough during their brief high school interactions at camps and nationals. He associates him more as Suna’s teammate now, mostly in a professional sense.

The three of them munch on the onigiri while an inoffensive comedy movie plays on screen (“Komori’s turn to pick” Sakusa informs Atsumu, wrinkling his nose distastefully). Komori sprawls across the armchair covered with his belongings, leaving Sakusa and Atsumu to share the couch. It’s not dissimilar to that first night at Atsumu’s apartment, but with Komori there the distance between him and Sakusa that used to seem too far suddenly seems too close. 

Komori, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice Atsumu’s discomfort and lingering embarrassment, or at least has the decency and acting skill to play it off like he is ignorant. That is, at least, until the apartment’s other occupant makes herself known.

Atsumu, focused on keeping his head towards the screen without glancing at Sakusa, flinches violently and nearly screeches when a gray blur leaps into his periphery. Miso lands gracefully right by his ear on the back of the couch, and Atsumu relaxes. She proceeds to nuzzle right into the crook of Atsumu’s neck, then slinks down into his lap and makes herself comfortable.

Atsumu, thankful for the distraction, gently pets around her ears and neck. She rewards him with a deeply pleased, sonorous purr.

His neck prickles with awareness, and he looks up to see Komori with an odd expression.

“What?” 

“Miso hates strangers,” Komori says, “I’m surprised to see her so relaxed with you. I’ve barely seen her all weekend.”

He turns to Sakusa and stage-whispers, “Psst! Kiyoomi! Miya tamed your demon cat!”

Sakusa looks over, exasperated. “Motoya. She’s perfectly pleasant.”

“Lies! I’ve been here plenty of times and she either flat out ignores me or ambushes me when I round corners. Miya-kun, how’d you do it? How’d you win her over?”

Atsumu laughs a little. “Your guess is as good as mine, Komori-kun. I’ve only been here one time since I got out of the hospital. She took a liking to me right away.”

Sakusa neither confirms or denies this, just squints at both of them, then turns to refocus on the movie. 

Komori’s eyes narrow with skepticism, and flick between Atsumu and Sakusa. “Huh. Well, wonders never cease. Guess you don’t seem like much of a stranger to her.”

Atsumu doesn’t know how to answer that, and Sakusa is already pointedly staring at the screen. Miso just sprawls out comfortably on Atsumu’s lap, and Atsumu settles in for the evening, resigning himself to being hyper aware of the overly familiar cat on his lap, mentally agonizing over the long, yet short stretch of couch between himself and Sakusa, and avoiding the curious gaze of his nosy cousin.

=======

  
  
  


“I’m telling you Samu, anyone would’ve made that mistake, seeing as how Sakusa is about as affectionate as a cactus and let Komori hang all over him! And the way he was sprawled around his apartment!” Atsumu whines to his brother after recounting the whole Komori debacle. Osamu just guffaws again, and Atsumu tears his gaze away from his dumb face to mope with his face on the counter.

“All right, all right you big brat, c’mon, face off the counter, I just wiped that, don’t need your drool on it.” Osamu pokes his brother from across the counter. Atsumu just flops his arms uselessly and wills himself to sulk harder into the polished wood. He’s been laughed at several times in the last twenty four hours for this—Osamu has no mercy and immediately told Suna. He feels entitled to a little self-pity party, since Osamu has no sympathy to spare. 

“Hey now, Samu-Samu, enough of that, hear your brother out properly.”

He hears a light thwack and then Osamu’s “ow” and looks up to see an avenging angel come to his aid. Shirofuku withdraws the chopsticks from the attack position and turns to smile at Atsumu. How could he have ever forgotten such providence. 

“Though, Tsum-Tsum, I have to say, objectively, it is very funny.”

He takes it back. Osamu truly found his soulmate and Atsumu suffers for it. If Suna didn’t relay the story to Washio already, he’s sure that Shirofuku will soon, and within the week the majority of the V.League will hear about Atsumu’s hilarious gaff via the Inarizaki and Fukurodani alumni. Inunaki will be unbearable.

Osamu returns his attention to preparing ingredients for the dinner rush with Shirofuku’s help, but eventually addresses Atsumu again. “Hey, you misread the situation this time, but who’s to say you won’t be right next time? Sakusa’s a hot, successful athlete. You’re, well, you know.”

“I’m a hot, successful athlete,” Atsumu mumbles into the countertop, “what are you trying to say.”

“I’m saying you’re not subtle, Tsumu. You obviously like him; you talk about him a lot lately. What’s stopping you from just asking the guy out?”

Atsumu actually pauses in thought at the question. He resolved to get closer to Sakusa, sure, but asking him out directly takes a whole different kind of courage. 

Osamu snaps his fingers to get Atsumu to look up at him. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you, just ‘cause you lost a couple years.”

“What d’you mean by that?”

“Our bet,” Osamu answers, a smug grin at full wattage, “I’m definitely winning.”

“I am literally an Olympian, Samu, that’s gotta count for something.”

“Nah, you don’t remember it, can’t count for shit”

“Low blow—!”

Osamu speaks over Atsumu’s squawking. “By most people’s accounts, y’know, they’d say I’m in the lead. I’ve got a wildly successful shop, I’m engaged, I’ve got a kid on the way. That’s what most people mean by ‘happiness,’ I think. What people are supposed to do to live a fulfilling life.”

“But,” Samu places his hands on the counter, and his stare bears down on Atsumu, “we’re not most people, and you never do what you’re “supposed” to do anyways. 

“The Atsumu I knew, these last two years, and before that, wouldn’t hesitate to go after what he knows will make him happy. So I’m saying, you better seize your happiness when you see it, or I’ll leave you in the dust.”

Atsumu scowls with his mouth full and makes a rude gesture at Osamu. In all honesty though, his brother has a point, though he’ll never admit it out loud.

Akaashi had said that Atsumu had looked happier, before. But what was that happiness made of? Was it the accolades? The satisfaction with his sport, with himself? That’s what defined his pride and ambition before, so of course he chased that happiness.

Now though? He still pursues those things, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop, but maybe his pursuit is opening onto new trails now. Instead of a gnawing hunger for glory, for gold, there’s a new need for the magnificence in small things, reverence for a precious feeling instead of a precious metal or medal. Someone to both chase and cherish.

He doesn’t know for sure, if this new happiness is close to what made him happy before. But, as he watches Osamu feed a bite to Shirofuku and the doting smiles between them, and he thinks about those past evenings spent with Sakusa, cooking and joking around, the mornings running by his side, matching his stride, the way it feels so easy to make space in his life for this, he figures, he doesn’t have to. He sees something that would make him happy now, as he is now, and since when has he ever hesitated to strive for that?

  
  


=======

  
  
  


Come Monday morning after their long weekend, Atsumu wakes up to a message from Sakusa that he won’t join his run today, he has to see Komori off at the train station. Disappointing, but Atsumu takes the reprieve for what it is and uses his morning jog to think about ways to casually ask Sakusa out without being obvious.

He goes to practice as normal, expecting to be able to snag Sakusa for a quick chat beforehand, but instead, his teammates break into a chatter as soon as he steps into the locker room. Everyone is talking too fast to make out what’s happening, but ever-direct, Bokuto’s enthusiastic yell and crushing side-hug cuts through the clamor.

“Tsum-Tsum! You’re looking at France?! Or wait, France is looking at you?! That is so cool! Ohhhh but I would hate to lose you as a setter...but still, France! Keiji says that Paris is the ‘city of love!’ Or was it ‘lights’?”

“Bokkun, please, slow down buddy, let me catch up here. I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Atsumu wheezes in his grip. “I don’t speak French? Where is this even coming from?”

“Didn’t stop Kageyama!” Inunaki whoops, smacking Atsumu on the back playfully as he passes him. Before he can snark back, Inunaki pushes the new issue of Volleyball Monthly into his hands, pages already open to an article featuring an image of himself:

**_Ligue A Courts MSBY Jackal’s Setter Miya Atsumu._ **

_Premier French league team Asnières Volley 95 unphased by setter’s recent injury, intends to renew request for contract negotiations for the 2023-2024 season._

Now that he thinks about it, he ignored a call from an unknown number this morning. Perhaps it was his agent. He’d only spoken to her briefly on the phone once since the accident, and had yet to actually save her number in his new phone’s contacts. 

He skims the article, ignoring his teammates’ light-hearted jabs at the idea of Atsumu in France. There’s nothing really definitive in the article, it mostly covers the brief history of the past negotiations involving Atsumu, references a few other offers from other countries, particularly after the Olympics, and delves into some stats and league comparisons. It’s the usual vague fodder for gossip in professional sports.

Frankly, after the idea came up while speaking with Iwaizumi, Atsumu considered the issue settled. For all that he is about recreating himself regardless of his missing memories, he trusts the decisions that other-Atsumu made in this respect. The thought of leaving now, when he’s finally getting a handle on how to fit into this Atsumu’s life leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth. Anxiety prickles up his neck.

His new-to-him apartment felt so empty just a bit ago. It felt a bit like some grand reflection of himself. Sturdy architecture, but missing some substance, some personality. He’s been slowly filling up the space with pieces of the self he’s finding himself to be, and the person that other people see in him now. Osamu’s snacks and random cookware. Shirofuku’s recipes. Sakusa’s plants. He was lost at sea before, but he’s setting a course now. Iwaizumi said that Atsumu had something to see through—and sure, maybe Atsumu didn’t remember it then, but he knows something right now.

Instinctively, he looks up to search for Sakusa at the thought. The chatter around him has moved on to other topics and most of the team is trickling out of the locker room towards practice, but Sakusa is still at his locker. 

Atsumu watches Sakusa’s usual pre-practice routine from his locker on the other side of the room. Sakusa pushes and pulls, shakes and pops, testing each joint and shaking as if settling into his limbs for the day. It’s the same careful, measured, and deliberate attention that Sakusa applies to most everything in his life. He remains focused and doesn’t immediately acknowledge Atsumu when he walks up to him.

“So, Omi-kun, what do you think?”

“About what, Miya,” Sakusa breathes out evenly, eyes flicking up to meet Atsumu’s briefly before focusing back on the stretch.

“Well, I’m sure you heard all the commotion. So? What do you think? France suits me, huh,” Atsumu is only teasing, but Sakusa actually tilts his head like he gives it serious consideration.

“Don’t let me feed your ego, Miya, you get enough of that from the offer alone,” Sakusa finally says. 

“Jealous?” Atsumu leans in.

“No. Rather, why don’t you focus on this season instead of next right now?”

“Worried I’ll get distracted? I promise, Omi-kun, I’m not going anywhere soon,” Atsumu says lightly, tempering the earnesty of his words. He leans further towards Sakusa.

Sakusa doesn’t even glance up at Atsumu when he whips a bag out from the locker behind him and unceremoniously shoves it towards Atsumu, forcing him to lean back again. 

“What’s this?” Atsumu asks. He takes the bag delicately, peeking into the contents. It’s some kind of boxed souvenir. His eyes light up.

“Momiji manju, Hiroshima specialty. Motoya brought them when he visited. He insisted that I share with you since you brought dinner over,” Sakusa answers bluntly.

“Your cousin is the civilized one, I see.”  
  
“That’s rich, coming from you, considering your brother is the proper businessman and all.”

“Hey now, I’m proper in my own way,” Miya takes the jab good-naturedly; he knows Sakusa doesn’t mean it. He smiles fondly at the quickfire exchange of barbs that follow. It’s been several weeks since Sakusa started warming up to him (again), but it always feels like a piece of the puzzle of his mind settling into place.

Atsumu glances around. Everyone else has left to go to the gym. Now is as good a time as any, right?

“Say, speaking of Samu. He’s got some new menu items to try. I’m always his taste tester, but he’s always telling me to bring others ‘round too. What d’you say? Our next free day?” He walks over to his locker to put the treats away, calling back to Sakusa casually, like an afterthought, “heck we can make a day of it, hit up Tsurumi Ryokuchi Park and all. You haven’t been yet, have you? Or have you? I don’t remember. They have a huge botanical garden, I figure you’d like it…”

Atsumu trails off, a little self conscious. Was that too obvious? Just casual enough? He can’t tell. He chickened out and didn’t ask Sakusa out for a date outright, but this way he can test the waters. See what Sakusa reads into it.

He hears Sakusa shift and stand up behind him, and he heads for the door, Sakusa trailing behind him. 

“Sure,” he hears Sakusa answer, and he has to consciously rein in the urge to fist pump. 

  
  


=======

  
  


It’s not because it’s (maybe) a date. Atsumu would take as much care to go out with any of his friends. He steals the linen jacket from Osamu’s closet because the jerk deserves it, not because he’s anxious he has nothing to wear. He bookmarks two cafés in two different areas after scouring reviews and customer photos _just in case_ they feel hungry before dinner and he’s just saving them both some time, so Sakusa doesn’t feel uncomfortable. He nervously thumbs through the plant care book because he’s just browsing, okay, he doesn’t care if Sakusa talks plants to him and he doesn’t understand anything.

When the day of the date arrives, they meet up at their usual corner and walk to the station together. Atsumu is relieved that he put more effort—just a tiny bit, really!—into his appearance, because it seems like Sakusa did too. Most of the time they’re either in athletic wear or leisure wear, so it’s gratifying to see Sakusa in more than loose sweats and tees. He’s wearing a t-shirt, but it’s fitted, clinging elegantly to his torso and tucked into fashionable linen slacks. The bucket hat looks unfairly endearing on top of his curls. The sunglasses and shoulder tote complete the stylish ensemble. Atsumu could swoon, and he does for an effect that has Sakusa pushing him back up playfully, cheeks tinged pink. 

They travel in a comfortable silence on the train towards Tsurumi ward. Atsumu thinks on how all those morning runs and quiet evenings have removed the need to fill the space with meaningless conversation, marveling that he gets to merely bask in the presence beside him. 

The walk from the station to the Sakuya Konohana kan building is nearly fifteen minutes, but the day is pleasant. For the height of summer, they’ve lucked out; it’s sunny, but not overly balmy. There’s a gentle breeze rustling the leaves over head and dappling the light across the path. 

Atsumu watches Sakusa as they walk through the park, to the gardens, and pay the admission fee. He can’t see his expression behind the mask, but the set of his eyebrows is relaxed. Even so, Atsumu can tell this:

“So, you _have_ been before,” Atsumu states, drily. “You could’ve said, we could’ve gone somewhere else if you wanted. Or just to the shop.”

Sakusa nods, and Atsumu waits. He doesn’t think that Sakusa would come out here with him just to humor a whim. 

“It’s fun.”

“What is?”  
  
“Seeing this city with you is fun. It makes it feel a little more like home,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu mulls over that for a bit, about how as oddly detached from his life that he feels in his current situation, there are other ways to be at a loss in the world, both big and small. Maybe Sakusa, Tokyo-born-and-bred, appreciates the home he gets to make. 

Athletes move cities and prefectures and countries and continents. Their contracts are temporary, and a home team doesn’t always mean a home. Atsumu is lucky that his childhood home is a mere hour and change away. His high school memories mingle with his adult memories in these spaces. He has grown and changed with the land and city around him. 

But Sakusa has uprooted. He is too grounded of a person to let that disarm him, and he chose the professional athlete’s life, Atsumu won’t deny him his poise and his agency. Yet, feeling at ease as yourself in making a place instead of filling a space isn’t entirely by sheer force of will, it’s borne of time and familiarity. Memories, all the more so with people important to you.

Atsumu thinks about the two of them and this contrast. Atsumu, comfortable in this, his home environment, despite the loss of some memories. Sakusa, in a newer environment and adapting, making memories to make a home. What a pair they make.

Sakusa walks ahead of Atsumu, clearly not pondering the same things as Atsumu, leaning over to look at some arid blooms with a small smile. Atsumu smiles at the sight. He thinks, _I want to be your home._

  
  


\---

  
  


They walk through the different regions and Sakusa talks quietly about some of the plants, while Atsumu jokes and comments on them (“Look, it’s your other cousins. Get it? Prickly? Cacti?” “Very funny.”).

They could spend the whole day in the park if they wanted. As it is, Atsumu insists they get some pictures under the iconic windmill before they leave, but after that, they start meandering towards the shopping street that’s home to Onigiri Miya. 

After that first week at Osamu’s place, Atsumu is more than familiar with the streets and spots between the park and the shop. It’s only maybe a twenty minute walk, but Atsumu takes them on a winding tour of Moriguchi along the Nishisansou Yutori Road, criss crossing the path to point out notable sights and shops to Sakusa along the way.

By the time they slide open the door to Onigiri Miya, the dinner rush is just trailing off. Osamu looks up from cooking with a grin, and Shirofuku smiles and waves from a counter seat at the end.

“Sakusa-kun! It’s been a while,” she gestures to the open seats beside her. Osamu flings a cloth at Atsumu, who scowls at his brother, but wipes down the stools and countertop without protest.

Sakusa looks a little unsure of what to say or do with Shirofuku’s effusive familiarity. But he seems to shake out of his awkwardness quickly, and offers both her and Osamu a small smile after removing his mask. 

“Congratulations,” he says quietly, gesturing awkwardly between Shirofuku and Osamu. “Atsumu told me the good news.”

“Thank you~” Shirofuku smiles warmly as they settle into their seats. Osamu smiles as well, and offers to start a fresh batch of rice personally for Sakusa, who nods gratefully.

They chatter between the three of them, four of them when Osamu isn’t serving a customer, light conversation about the shop, the upcoming season, the wedding, the baby. Sakusa is quiet, but that’s normal for him in public spaces, or he’s tired from the park. Maybe he just doesn’t know what to talk about, so Atsumu steers the conversation back to the new dishes Osamu’s testing out. 

This starts a debate between Osamu and Shirofuku about how to elevate the flavor profile of the new miso salmon onigiri, which turns into some kind of weird flirting between the two of them involving pet names and food-themed insults. Atsumu watches with gross fascination, and looks over at his fellow observer to make a snarky comment. Instead, he sees Sakusa staring unfocused, somehow watching, but not really seeing. He looks miles away. Atsumu wants to reach out and pull him back.

“Looking at them really makes you wonder about soulmates, huh?” Atsumu blurts out. Sakusa whips his head to look at Atsumu with narrowed eyes. His mask is already off in anticipation of the meal, so Atsumu can see the thin drawn line of his mouth, the tiny clench of his jaw in the set of his mouth. Atsumu fiddles nervously with the glass of water in his hands, gently sliding between his hands in the pools of condensation on the counter. 

“So, what about you? You a secret romantic under all that sass and sanitizer, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa looks at Atsumu with a flash of something—anger? Hurt?—just for a moment, but it passes and he turns his face away again to watch the bustle behind the counter before answering.

“Soulmates, fate, destiny,” he replies, a little quietly for the din of the restaurant, “all that seems a little heavy-handed to me. If things are a foregone conclusion, doesn’t that make it a bunch of excuses? If things work out or even if they don’t, I would want it to be because I did my very best to do it right or because I made a mistake I can grow from. Gaining love….” his eyes slide back to regard Atsumu with a heavy solemnity, “losing love, shouldn’t that be because of the effort you put in every day to be by their side?”

Atsumu is a little speechless, a little breathless. Sakusa holds his gaze. Atsumu chickens out. He grins cheekily instead, flapping a hand. “Geez, Omi-omi, it was rhetorical, you know? That was a heavy dose of reality to dish up, not that I don’t agree with you.” Atsumu nods. 

“I just think they deserve what they have together, whether through hard work or through higher powers, whichever you’re so inclined to put your faith in. I’m sure our parents are just happy to know that at least one of us will continue the Miya name,” Atsumu jokes, “though I’m not sure they’re looking forward to babysitting, considering how much of a terror we were when we were kids.” Atsumu dares to nudge Sakusa’s elbow and flashes him a conspiratorial grin, but Sakusa doesn’t react, just stiffly watches Osamu finish preparing the food.

Osamu leans over the counter to place the plates down and smacks Atsumu lightly on the head. “Oi. You were the terror. I was an _angel_.”

“Libel!”

“Libel is written, Tsumu, you’re thinking of _slander._ ”

“Samu, you say that like you didn’t once break mom’s favorite platter trying to climb up the counters for _pudding_. ”

“I’m not sinking so low as to pull the childhood receipts, Tsumu, but if I _did,_ the property damage tally definitely favors _you._ Shut up and eat your food, you heathen.”

The twins’ verbal sparring devolves into childish insults, which turn into recounting hilarious childhood escapades for Sakusa and Shirofuku alike. Sakusa manages to crack a smile again, three dishes in and at the cost of much personal embarrassment to Atsumu, but it’s not the same one from earlier. Not as warm, not as relaxed. Atsumu wonders where it went wrong.

  
  


\---

  
  


They finish the new menu ideas and are wrapping up a long and animated discussion on the merits of wasabi peas, and Sakusa is almost back to the good mood from earlier, but the conversation somehow turns to catering and then the wedding again, and Atsumu notices Sakusa has less and less to contribute to the conversation.

Oblivious, Shirofuku cheerfully pokes a little fun at Atsumu.

“Ohhh, Sakusa, you’re definitely invited to the wedding, but what do you think? Would you want to be on my side as Bokuto’s teammate, or Samu’s side, as Atsumu’s?” Shirofuku’s grin stretches wide, almost cat-like, and Atsumu despairs at this impending union, just for a second, just a little.

“Um,” Sakusa says, before Atsumu waves them off.

“Ignore them, Omi-kun, this idiot couple is just too excited,” Atsumu glares at Osamu, “wedding’s like over a year away, what even are you two on about—”

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you at the wedding, one way or another, Sakusa-kun,” Osamu cuts in with a shit-eating grin, and Sakusa just nods back stiffly, bowing a little with his thanks to both Osamu and Shirofuku before pivoting to walk out of the shop. 

“Uh, wait for me, Omi-kun,” Atsumu fumbles to slap a couple bills on the counter, flips his brother off, and hurries after Sakusa. Atsumu slides the door open wider from where Sakusa slipped out and nearly crashes into a young woman. He rears back, and she stiffens in shock. 

He moves to go around her, apology on his lips, but she softly exclaims and Atsumu sees recognition light up her eyes.

“Oh, Miya-san,” she says, smiling brightly at Atsumu. “I’m glad to see you. I’ve been meaning to give you a call.”

Call? Atsumu takes in her appearance a little more closely, one eye on Sakusa’s form retreating down the road. He doesn’t recognize her, but she seems vaguely familiar. Maybe a friend of Osamu’s?

“Oh? Uh, yeah, good to see you too. Um, actually—” he glances back down at her, though she seems to catch on to his rush, and curiously follows his gaze. “Sorry, it’s a long story, but, uh, I’m in a hurry, I can’t talk right now, sorry” He says, already moving around her.

She nods genially. “No problem, I see that. I’ll call you later.”

Atsumu nods and murmurs a quick thanks and walks quickly after Sakusa. As a harried afterthought, he calls back to her just as she’s stepping into the shop. “My number changed! Ask my brother inside for the details. Sorry! Thanks again!”

Atsumu catches up to Sakusa quickly. He wasn’t quite completely ditching him, but Sakusa certainly didn’t wait for him for long. He doesn’t say anything when Atsumu falls silently into step beside him. 

They’re halfway back to the station, leaving behind the evening merrymakers and warm babble of izakayas and street food vendors near Onigiri Miya, but not yet near the hustle and bustle of the station. The street is quiet, the sun just slipping over the horizon. Atsumu keeps glancing sideways at Sakusa, trying to work out what just happened over the course of dinner and what it has to do with the twist at the corner of Sakusa’s eyes.

The streetlamps flicker on, and Atsumu gathers up his courage to speak. “Can I ask what that was all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Omi-kun. You know. Here we are having a grand old time together, and suddenly you’re back to Mr. Tall Dark and Broody with a stick up his ass, ditching me without a word. A little rude to your date, don’t you think?”

“Date?” Sakusa sounds purposefully nonchalant. Atsumu winces. “If this is a date, why are you handing out your number to random women you meet on the street?”

“What? That just now?” Atsumu is surprised Sakusa heard that exchange with how he walked away. “I don’t even know what that was about, I was just trying to catch up to you, Omi-kun. And don’t pretend like your shitty attitude started just now with that. You’ve been moody ever since we got to Samu’s shop.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer him. Atsumu holds in a frustrated groan. He’s working off limited memory here, there must be something about the shop or their conversation that pissed him off, surely?

“Look,” Atsumu sighs, “you can talk to me, you know? You can tell me when I screw up, or piss you off. I can take it. When have you ever held back before?”

Sakusa stops suddenly and Atsumu turns to face him. He looks like he’s about to say something, but Atsumu interrupts him.

“Back when I just got out of the hospital, I said it before, right? Maybe this is kind of awkward, but I thought our,” Atsumu swallows nervously, “relationship was warming up nicely. We’re friends at least, now, again, right? You can talk to me about stuff. Anything.”

Atsumu definitely sounds a little desperate at the end of his words. He can feel the blood rushing to his face with both anger and embarrassment. He didn’t mean to get so deep there, but he just wants to know what went wrong in the last two hours after the whole day was one long, glorious montage from a rom com. He was so optimistic at the end of the garden tour, how did it come to this? The two of them, standing on a deserted street in the dark, having a tense not-quite-argument?

Atsumu looks at Sakusa the whole time, trying to catch his eye, to parse out Sakusa’s furrowed brow and slouched shoulders. Sakusa speaks whole sentences in the set of his shoulders, but right now, Atsumu is lost in translation.

Suddenly, Sakusa whips his head up with a fierce stare.

“Just leave it, Atsumu. I’m sorry I ruined our evening,” Sakusa says tersely. His eyes lose some of their ferocity when they meet Atsumu’s eyes. “But I don’t want to talk about it,” he finishes firmly.

“Look, Omi, I don’t think you ruined anything. And if you don’t want to talk, okay, that’s fine. For now. I just want to understand if there’s anything I can do to make you feel better now.”

Sakusa grimaces, Atsumu can tell even behind the mask. “What does it even matter to you? What do you gain from this, from me? Why do you care so much?”

“Because—” Atsumu takes a deep breath. This feels like a now or never kind of moment. 

“Because I want to understand you. Because I want to make you happy. Because we’re friends, but maybe—” Atsumu bites his lips nervously, “—definitely, I’d like to be more than that. Because I like you, Sakusa. Kiyoomi.”

Atsumu steps closer to Sakusa in the moment, but he stops short of grabbing him like he so desperately wants to. It’s the look on his face that stops him. Sakusa looks distraught. 

Atsumu flinches, but doesn’t back down. He doesn’t want to take that back, ever. It’s out there now, and even though Atsumu just dove off a cliff with no idea of how deep the water is, Sakusa is the one that looks like he could be drowning. “Omi—”

“Stop! Just stop.” Sakusa backs away. “We can’t do this. We already—we can’t. We’re teammates. I can be your friend, but I can’t be anything more than that. I want the best—I want you to do your best, Atsumu. This isn’t what you’re supposed to do.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘supposed to’?!” Atsumu’s patience is little, and his delicacy even less. He feels his frustration bubbling out with his words, but he can’t stop it.

“I’ve been hearing that non-stop for the last month and a half, you know. Atsumu you’re supposed to know this, you’re supposed to do this. Why don’t you remember, Atsumu? Well, I figure the only thing I’m _supposed_ to do is listen to who I am now, not who I’m _supposed_ to be. This Atsumu wants you. Sakusa—Omi—Kiyoomi. I really like you. Isn’t that enough?”

Sakusa has his eyes closed, his head bowed. He takes in a deep breath. 

“Atsu—Miya. This Atsumu won’t ever be _enough._ ”

Sakusa’s face is stone. Impassive. He doesn’t look sorry. He doesn’t even spare Atsumu any pity for ripping his heart out and stomping on it. It’s like the last ten years of being acquaintances, four years of teammates, and six weeks of friends-again mean nothing to him in this moment. 

“Okay,” Atsumu replies. He doesn’t want to think anymore. He spins on his heel and walks away from Kiyoomi. From Sakusa. He doesn’t look back.

\---

Atsumu’s walk turns into a jog, then a run. He doesn’t pay attention to where he is or where he’s going. He just goes. If only he could run faster, maybe he could pound out every stupid thing he’s said and done to make Sakusa look like that, to say that. He should’ve known better. Twenty-six-year-old Atsumu clearly knew better. 

He finally stops his near sprint when his lungs feel like they’re going to burst and collapse at the same time. He hunches over, hands on knees, breathing out harshly like he can rid himself of his feelings with every exhale. He’s not crying. 

Something buzzes in his pocket. He groans and extracts his phone from his pants, now plastered to his legs with sweat; the chafing is going to be murder tomorrow, he just knows it.

He readies himself to hit reject if it’s Sakusa, and snarl into the phone if it’s Osamu, but the screen just reads “ _Unknown Number.”_ Heck, maybe it’s his agent and he can accept the offer from France and put a few thousand miles between himself and his poor choices.

“Hello?” He doesn’t quite snap into the receiver, but only just.

“Good evening, is this Miya Atsumu-san? This is Kyozawa Sakura, from _L’Atelier Aurore.”_ The voice and the name sound oddly familiar. “I ran into you earlier, at your brother’s shop…”

Ah. The young woman from earlier. The shop name rings a bell, and Atsumu remembers why she looked familiar; she’s a shopkeeper from his brother’s street. He sometimes passed that shop on his runs, and she would offer a friendly wave if she saw.

Honestly, he’s not in the mood for whatever she has to say. But just as he’s about to politely decline whatever she’s calling about, she goes on.

“I’m actually calling you about your order. I’m so sorry I interrupted you at your brother’s shop, it just felt all very convenient that you happened to be there the same day we finished the rings.”

She sounds sweet, if professional, but nothing she’s saying makes sense as she continues rambling. Rings? 

Something at the very edge of Atsumu’s mind brushes his consciousness, and he strains to catch it, like the half-remembered lyrics of an old song. Rings. He ordered rings from a shop on Osamu’s street. He’s sweating and shaking, but all of a sudden it doesn’t feel like it’s from his ill-advised run. 

“—so, anyways, I just wanted to call you and officially let you know that your order is ready to pick up. Miya-san?”

Atsumu’s mind is stretching, reaching into a murky darkness over an ocean, grasping at a thin ribbon of light thrown across the waves, cutting through the fog, a lifeline to a distant shore. He catches hold and hurtles down streets and paths and years and days, but he holds on, desperate not to let go, because this—this is important even if he can’t remember why, even as he starts to suspect why. 

“Look, uh, Sakusa—Sakura—er, Kiyo. Kyozawa-san. I’m—I’m actually still in the neighborhood. Would you do me a big favor, and stay open until I get there? It’s really important. I need to pick up that order tonight.” 

There’s a brief silence, but when she replies, she doesn’t sound annoyed, just warm with compassion. “I understand, Miya-san. I will see you soon.”

And Atsumu is already sprinting again, pulling up the map for the nearest station.

\---

As he jogs up the street and approaches the shop, it looks more familiar at night than it ever did before. The shopfront doesn’t have any of its wares displayed in the window front anymore, but the lights are on, casting a warm glow through the window. The sign glows gently in the night, a neon sun rising over the elegant script of the shop name.

The sign on the door says closed, but Atsumu spies Kyozawa at the till, and when he taps quietly on the glass, she looks up, smiles, and comes over to let him in. 

“Miya-san. I’m glad you could make it. I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier again—”

“Kyozawa-san,” Atsumu stops her, “please, don’t apologize. If anything, I should be apologizing for making you hang around late. Thank you for sticking around for my sake” 

“It’s no problem, I am happy to help,” she says, and leads him to the counter. She looks back, and smiles. “Sometimes, in this line of work, there can be a sense of urgency for better or for worse. I think,” she says, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully, “that your case is probably for the better, no?”

Atsumu merely nods, eager to see what exactly he had ordered from this shop. Kyozawa rambles on amiably while rustling behind the shop front’s counter.

“You know, you were kind of in a rush the first time you came here too,” she says, not looking at Atsumu, but smiling like she knows a secret. She goes on without prompting. “I remember it, because it was near closing, and because you were impatient, but you didn’t seem desperate. It was more...spontaneous. It felt like you were maybe a little angry? But not in a bad way. More like you had something to prove.”

She laughs. “But you knew exactly what you wanted. Didn’t hesitate at all.” And she pulls out a deep navy velvet box, opening it up and spinning it to show Atsumu. “As discussed, 14K hammered gold rings, in sizes 10 and 11. No jewel inset, but custom engravings on the inside. Comes with these fine gold-plated chains for when you need your hands free.”

Nestled in the plush navy velvet are two gold rings. The bands aren’t overly thick, but not very delicate either. The warm golden color looks more brilliant somehow, with a variety of facets from the hammered texture capturing the light and making the rings shimmer. 

“That was him at the shop, right? Your partner.” Atsumu, for once, doesn’t blush. It doesn’t seem real, yet. He just nods in response, still a little lost in wonder at the thoughts swirling with these rings. “You didn’t say when you came in the first time. But with these ring sizes, and the way you chased after him. I could tell.” She smiles indulgently, then seems to catch herself. “Ah! Don’t worry! I won’t say anything. I support you!”

Atsumu just nods again, signs some papers to confirm the pick up, stutters a thank you, and leaves the shop in a daze. He knows what he needs to do now, but first he has to figure out where to go, though he thinks, just maybe, if he gives it some time, he might just remember.

  
  


=======

  
  


The train is nearly empty at this time of night, but Atsumu’s head is full. Osaka’s scenery zips past, but a different sequence of images flash across Atsumu’s vision, fleeting. He grips the gold band in his hand, tight enough to leave a mark, willing it to brand these feelings into his palm, burn them permanently into his lifeline, travel all the way up his arm and down to his chest and up to his head and sear these images into his mind, heart, and soul, permanently this time. 

*

_“Look, Omi-kun, I got this for you for when you come over,” Atsumu says with a little smirk and eyebrow wiggle. “It can make all those fancy drinks you got addicted to in college.”_

_Sakusa snorts, but it’s ruined by the smile creeping across his face._

_“...Do you even know how to use that.”_

_“Nah, so teach me?”_

*

_“Your new place is a little...cold.”_

_He’s hoping they can fill it together. It’s already warmer for Kiyoomi’s presence alone._

_“I’m new to this whole ‘adulting’ thing, Omi-omi, cut me some slack. What do you suggest to start?”_

_“...It could use some plants”_

*

_“It’s a housewarming gift. Your first plant.”_

_“It’s an alien, Omi-kun.”_

_“It’s a_ Burro’s tail. _Which means donkey. I figured you would remember to take care of it like you take care of yourself, since you’re a jackass too.”_

_But Atsumu hears what he doesn’t say. I know you. You care for things. You care for yourself and you care for me. You care for us._

*

_Sakusa waits at the corner—their corner—lightly bobbing to warm up before they start their run. The sun peeks over the horizon, illuminating Sakusa from the side, and Atsumu’s breath catches—_

*

_Atsumu bumps shoulders with Kiyoomi in the kitchen as they stand side by side. Wet hands, then salt, folding rice, tucking fillings in gently, more rice, carefully, gently, but firmly shaping the rice ball. And later it’s not rice in Kiyoomi’s hands, but Atsumu’s heart; he takes it gently, folds it softly, firmly, shapes it carefully, and Atsumu does likewise for Kiyoomi._

*

_He wakes up to Kiyoomi’s gaze on his face. “Like what you see, Omi-kun?” He smirks and starts to sit up, but a hand reaches out and brushes into his hair, holding the world still._

_“The light. It makes your hair —”_

*

_Gold. They came here for one thing. Kiyoomi stands next to Atsumu. The crowd claps and cheers for the home team, their monster generation._

_They don’t touch, but he can feel the warmth radiating from his side._

_Later they exchange medals. There are no engravings, they both read Men’s Volleyball Tokyo 2020,_ _but they know what it means. Your victories are my victories. We won, together._

*

The train barrels down a tunnel, into darkness, underground once again.

*

_“—don’t need to prove myself over there. Why do I have to prove that to you? I’m happy_ here _! You make me happy, this makes me happy!”_

_“But you could be better, you’re missing a great opportunity—”_

_“You saying I need to get better?”_

_“You could go farther, Atsumu, why give up here?”_

_“I’m not giving anything up, Kiyoomi. I believe in the team I’m on now. I think we still have a lot to do, together.”_

_“I just don’t want to hold you back—”_

*

_“I’m back! And I’m going to be an uncle!” Atsumu stumbles through the door to Kiyoomi’s apartment. Miso skitters away from Atsumu’s haphazard movement. He drops his bag and coat to the floor, and ignores Kiyoomi’s nose wrinkling in distaste. He hugs Kiyoomi from behind, and murmurs into his neck._

_“A mini-Miya running around, can you believe it? I can’t wait.”_

_Something flits across Kiyoomi’s features, but he just scoffs._

_“Your parents must be saints for raising you two, though we can only hope Osamu’s genes will make for a quieter kid,”_

_“We literally have the same DNA Kiyoomi, I’d say it’s fifty-fifty. And excuse you, I was an angel growing up.”_

_They move to the kitchen, they have a celebratory drink with dinner, they get distracted later, but watching the way Omi withdraws from him later, for the first time Atsumu thinks something is wrong, something is really wrong._

*

And then, right as they pull up to the station, one particularly vivid memory hits Atsumu like a train. 

*

_“You could be happy, you could have anything you want, you’re a popular, immensely talented athlete with a bright future ahead, you don’t have to settle for this.”_

_“I’m not_ settling _for anything, this is my happiness! This is what I want, right now! You make me happy, Kiyoomi, what more could I want?”_

_“Will I make you happy in a year, two years, ten years? Atsumu, this relationship—it’s going nowhere, and it’s taking you with it. It’s not enough. It won’t be enough.”_

_You’re not enough to make it worth it, is what Atsumu hears. Atsumu freezes._

_“Just forget about it, Atsumu.”_

*

He’s walking back from the station, towards Kiyoomi’s apartment, but in his memories:

*

_He’s fuming, stalking out of the apartment. He’s digging his nails into his hands with the force of the angry fist he makes. Kiyoomi’s wrong, but he doesn’t know how to make that blunt, stubborn jerk see otherwise. He doesn’t know what to say or do that he hasn’t already said or done._

_Kiyoomi has steeped into his world, grew into everything he does, everything he wants. Every bitter coffee he brews, every time he waters their plants, every step in time in their runs, every set and spike and thunder of the ball across the court._

_He’s so, so angry, but more than that he feels so out of his depth, drowning in an ocean of his feelings, so desperate to prove the existence of something that Sakusa claims he can’t see, but maybe he can’t see it because it’s just too large._

*

_Something flashes, bright light glinting in his periphery. The shop on the corner before Onigiri Miya is fairly new; it looks like some kind of artisan’s store. A young woman places out trays of delicate, glittering pieces for show in the window. And Atsumu stops, entranced. He thinks._

_Maybe Atsumu can’t reassure Kiyoomi with words every time. But, maybe he can show him another way, give him an anchor, a lifeline, a glimmer of hope in a sea of doubt. Something to remind him that Atsumu loves him, no matter what._

*

He’s in front of Kiyoomi’s building and he pulls out his key ring. There’s one key on it that he hadn’t found a use for, but now he slips it into the front door of the building. The lock clicks. He moves to the elevator, and 

_Everything is black. If Atsumu stares hard enough into the darkness, he thinks he can see a shape start to form. Black hair first. Then, two perfect black dots on a face. Two black brows, deeply set in a frown despite their owner’s eyes closed. A hand rests in another hand by the face. Atsumu realizes idly that it’s his hand. Sakusa Kiyoomi is holding his hand, at his bedside, sleeping. Atsumu must be dreaming. There’s no way Sakusa Kiyoomi would hold hands with Atsumu so tenderly, face so close he could reach out and wipe the frown from his brow. He doesn’t. It’s just a dream._

_=======_

Atsumu slams the door to the apartment building’s rooftop open, but as he steps out and spies his quarry across the way, Kiyoomi doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him.

He marches forward, realizing he didn’t prepare anything to say but to hell with it, he’s angry. He opens his mouth and deflates immediately when Kiyoomi speaks first.

“How did you know where to find me?”

How did he?

“You always come up here after arguments,” which isn’t what Atsumu planned to say, but, somehow, incredibly, he’s right, and he knows it.

At that, Kiyoomi does turn around. He looks apprehensive. “What—”

“Even in the middle of the winter, and damn it Kiyoomi,” the other drew in a sharp breath at his name, “you never dress properly for it either. I don’t know how you convinced the building manager to give you a key to it—”

“Atsumu. Do you—you can’t.” Kiyoomi looks angry, but now Atsumu knows better. Rather, he remembers better. He’s upset, sure, but not angry.

“I can’t, what, be with you? That’s why, right. That’s why you pushed me away when you had the chance. Because I was supposed to be happier going to a foreign league. I was supposed to be happier with a wife and two kids and a dog and a house after I retire, right? I was supposed to be happier without you, because it wasn’t that I wasn’t enough to make it worthwhile, it’s that you thought that _you_ weren’t enough for me.”

Kiyoomi has his mouth open, but doesn’t seem to have anything to say, just stares at Atsumu with growing wonder. 

“And here I was, waking up with a whole chunk of my life missing, not wondering why everyone feelin’ sorry for me pissed me off, but wondering why you _not_ feelin’ sorry for me made me so happy. Wondering why everything you did drew me to you when the best I knew you as was supposedly a teammate.”

Atsumu hopes he’s making sense here, but Kiyoomi isn’t stopping him, so he goes on.

“You never felt sorry for me, Kiyoomi, because you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself. And I mean that in a nice way. You lost someone, you thought you lost me. You were mourning. I get that. Boy do I ever get that. I lost myself, too. But the thing is, Kiyoomi, like you said, we’re not soulmates because of fate. It’s not preordained or anything. Relationships work because of the effort we put into them or don’t because we don’t. And every day since I woke up, those efforts we put in reminded me of you, whether I knew it or not. Every little piece of us led me back to you—the plant, the coffee, the cooking—all of it.

“To answer your questions, Kiyoomi, I _can._ And,” he catches Kiyoomi’s hand, and gently, delicately, slips on the ring, holding up his own left hand in front of Kiyoomi’s face to show its partner, “I do.”

Kiyoomi is crying. Atsumu feels tears dripping down his face too. It might be the headache from the memory rush, or from the run, or from the emotional upheaval, but his knees nearly give out and Kiyoomi catches him, clutches him tightly, sinks his nose into the crook of his neck just like Miso does. The two of them sink to the ground.

Atsumu keeps murmuring into Kiyoomi’s curls. “I _do_ remember. I remember loving you. I remember working, playing, growing, cooking, fighting, with you, against you, for you. 

“And I’m sorry that maybe you thought I didn’t love you back, or didn’t love you the same way. I think you have some ridiculous story in your head, one where I’m _supposed_ to get the girl and the glory and the happy ending everyone expects.”

Kiyoomi’s hug tightens impossibly further, but Atsumu feels like he’s breathing clearly for the first time in six weeks.

“I want you to know something, Kiyoomi. If I’m just who I was two years ago, I already liked you then, because I already liked you the minute I woke up. I thought I was dreaming that your hand was in mine, because I never thought you’d ever touch me like that. And every moment since then has been me choosing to realize that dream. I’ll choose you every day, every time, Kiyoomi.”

Atsumu gives his all to his spikers, to volleyball, so how could he be with Kiyoomi for anything less than everything he has to give? Memories might make us who we are, but we’re also the sum of the little things we do every day. Somehow, Kiyoomi was—is—Atsumu’s every day. 

Kiyoomi lets go of Atsumu to swipe at his face, and really looks at Atsumu. He reaches out and catches hold of both of Kiyoomi’s hands this time, and pulls them away from his face where he’s wiping away tears. He brings both of Kiyoomi’s hands to his lips, and breathes a prayer, an ultimatum, a wish, a resolution into them.

“I know you hate leaving anything unfinished, so please, Kiyoomi, see this through to the end with me.”

Kiyoomi pulls his hands away, but it’s just to grab Atsumu’s collar, and yank him up into a kiss.

  
  


\---

  
  


For all his bravado on the roof, Atsumu doesn’t actually remember everything. They have an argument about this almost immediately, sprawled across Kiyoomi’s couch, going through everything in the last month and a half that led them to this moment.

Eventually, Atsumu just groans in exasperation and flops limply across Kiyoomi’s chest.

“Really now, who remembers everything over a lifetime of memories?” he grumbles into Kiyoomi’s collarbones. “I’m in this for life, Omi, so don’t worry about if we lose a couple years here and there. In fact, it would do for you to forget about some of those stories you heard ‘bout me and Samu this evening...”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi scolds gently, “don’t even joke about it. I’m not letting you or me forget about any of this, ever.” And then he laughs, a truly beautiful sound. Atsumu joins him. 

=======

“—to my teammates—and especially to you guys, Sakusa, the MVP, and Atsumu our service ace setter—thank you for your hard work, thank you for this win. Now, let’s celebrate the 2023-2024 V.LEAGUE CHAMPIONS!” Meian crows, already six drinks in. It’s the most disorderly Atsumu remembers seeing his captain. It’s well-deserved though; the Jackals have lost in the semi-finals for three consecutive years. Until today, that is.

Beside him, Kiyoomi is warm and pliant, leaning heavily on Atsumu’s shoulder, their hands twined beneath the table. The adrenaline from the match has long faded, and the victory celebrations are exhausting in their own right, but when he looks down at his partner’s face, Kiyoomi is bright-eyed and smiling, content among the chaos around them.

They’ll revel in their victories tonight, sleep off the hangover tomorrow, and the day after that?

Well, the Olympics are coming up, after all.

\---

Paris is surprisingly hot for this time of year. Somehow, for all his years growing up with Japan’s humid and scorching summers, he imagined France would be milder. But, he’s sweating, and not just because he’s late to practice.

Atsumu surveys the crowd around him, and sighs. He can’t find the building entrance he’s looking for. He looks nearby for someone to ask.

“ _Excusez-moi, savez-vous où je peux trouver le—”_ he starts, but a voice interrupts him.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa steps next to him, grabs a sleeve, and tugs Atsumu, “the entrance is this way.” 

“Omi-kun! My savior,” Atsumu croons. “Hey, does this mean you’re late for practice too? Iwaizumi is gonna make us run laps, like high schoolers.”

“Iwaizumi is going to be chasing around that Argentinian setter, we’re fine.”

“Wow, Europe has changed you, Omi-kun, you’re such a renegade now.”

“We’ve been here for three days, Atsumu,”

“I know, I think it suits me, can you tell? I’m already more romantic in the City of Love~” Atsumu coos at Kiyoomi and puckers his lips, but Kiyoomi shoves his face away with a scoff.

Atsumu laughs and they keep walking towards the gym’s athlete entrance. After a beat, Kiyoomi takes Atsumu’s hand.

“So, what do you think? Now that you’re here, do you have any regrets? You could’ve been a local celebrity by now,” Sakusa asks, playfully, but Atsumu worries at the little bit of the insecurity bleeding out.

“Not at all, Omi-kun. I don’t think the world could handle my many attractive qualities if we added “speaks fluent French” to the list. Though, I’ll give ‘em this: the French make some mean pastries. Osamu will be so jealous he’s missing this culinary action!”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi sounds exasperated, so Atsumu knows he’s not really worrying, but he abruptly stops walking anyway. He steps in front of Kiyoomi and whirls to face him, grabbing his hands.

“I chose this, and I’m happier for it everyday. I choose it every morning. I’ll choose it from now on, too. My past, present, and future—it’s yours, Kiyoomi. I promise.”

Kiyoomi smiles, genuine and lovely. Then, it turns a little sideways, a little smart. “Not sure I can trust you to keep your promises, Atsumu, considering the one you made—and haven’t fulfilled—at our last Olympic appearance.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen. “What are you talking about?”

Kiyoomi grimaces. “See? You forgot. Such a shame, too. I made a promise back then too, you see.”

“Omi-kun, that’s so unfair! You know I still don’t remember that!”

“Guess you’ll have to figure it out then,” Kiyoomi says, completely deadpan, and continues walking past Atsumu, but Atsumu hears the humor in his voice. He smiles, and skips to catch up to him again.

“If we win gold again, will you remind me?”

“I promise,” Kiyoomi answers, breathless and breathtaking.

\---

Atsumu doesn’t ever remember everything. They still have arguments. They disagree on coming out to the team. They disagree on moving in together (but the realty catalogues show up one day). Heck, they disagree on cat food for Miso. But they go for runs in the morning. They make coffee and cook together. For things forgotten, they figure it out. Or they make memories anew. It’s their choice every day to build themselves up and towards each other, and they make it.

=======

_In volleyball...the past is gone. There ain’t no such thing as memories._

_All you need is right here._

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you for reading. This is incredibly self-indulgent, and yet fought me hard the whole way. I slammed out over 15k in July in a frenzied night of writing, and then mulled over the rest of it for the last few months. I never expected to reach this word count, especially for my first fic. I'm relieved to finally publish it.
> 
> Though I have been around various fandoms for a while, I have never finished or published a fic before, but post-time skip Haikyuu seized me hard and has yet to let me go.
> 
> This is loosely inspired by the manga _Mou Ichido, Nando Demo._ by Aniya Yuiji (18+ only kiddos). I think a lot of lost memories fics focus on the person-who-was-forgotten instead of the person-who-forgot, so I really wanted to challenge myself with this POV. I'm not completely satisfied, but I grew a lot through the experience. This is also so...melodramatic, but is any story with amnesia _not_ melodramatic??
> 
> There is a Sakusa point-of-view companion to this that will elaborate on some elements, though I have other projects in mind first.
> 
> All mistakes are my own! I have far to go as a writer, but I know my shortcomings for now, so please no concrit for now, thanks.
> 
> Feel free to say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tirralirralirra)! I mostly retweet art right now, and occasionally post my own. I am totally cool to answer questions about things in the fic over there too. There was a lot of research/planning in the background that didn't necessarily make it to the final writing, and may or may not make it into the series.
> 
> 11/23/20: Very minor edits for little grammatical mistakes and a few missing words. Thank you for all of your kind comments and words. Enjoy~
> 
> 11/24/20: Removed a duplicate paragraph, thank you to the kind reader who pointed it out. If you see weird stuff like that feel free to let me know!
> 
> 11/25/20: Very minor word edits.


End file.
